


With Fire and Blood

by lbswasp



Series: Elegance Cannot Kill a Man [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (it's Jon Snow. He'll get better), Braavos, Canon Temporary Character Death, F/M, Hardhome, Meereen, Mentions of Infanticide, Mentions of Rape, Minor Character Deaths, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Season/Series 05, Season/Series 06, Strong Language, The slowest of burns continues, Virzeth Veri, red wolf, the wall - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-07-05 09:13:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 69,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15860670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbswasp/pseuds/lbswasp
Summary: After Joffrey's death, Sansa finds herself caught in a world of fire and blood. Will she ever see Winterfell again? Will she ever see her husband again?This retelling of Seasons 5 and 6 features a Sansa who is striking out on her own, a Jaime with a plan, and a Tyrion who expected his life to be very different from how it has turned out.Beta'ed by the superlativebrookebond.





	1. There has never lived

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Sorry for the wait, and thank you to everyone who commented on Thorns and encouraged me to keep writing. It really helped!
> 
> Bonus points to those who can tell me which real-life Queen was caught up in an affair featuring a diamond necklace and a man called Rohan…
> 
> Some dialogue from S04E03 “Breaker of Chains”.

Sansa gasped as Ser Dontos pulled her through the city, a stitch forming in her side. She hadn’t had much to eat at the feast, choosing instead to sip her wine. She could feel it sloshing inside her as Ser Dontos pulled her down one alley then another as the sun set over King’s Landing.

She wondered if the drunk had gotten lost. This morning, Varys’ little birds had reported watching Ser Dontos tie a boat below the Mud Gate but, if that was where they were headed, they were taking the stupidest route possible.

Sansa hoped that was where they were heading. Several of her plans relied on Aly intercepting them before they reached the boat. Sansa prayed to any deity that may be listening that they are heading for the boat, and that Ser Dontos hasn’t laid a false trail for Varys’ little birds. He didn’t seem like he was smart enough to have done that. 

Eventually, they reached the edge of the city and hurried through the trees towards the shore.

“Here, my lady, wait a moment. I will check that everything is undisturbed,” Ser Dontos said, leaving her standing in the shadows while he scrambled down to the boat.

With the quiet glide of fabric on rock, Aly emerged from the darkness and stood beside Sansa. “Are you ready, my lady?” asked Aly softly.

“You know you’ll have to answer to that title yourself now,” responded Sansa in an equally hushed tone as the two women swapped cloaks. “Be brave, Aly. You can do this.”

“So can you,” said Aly as the two embraced in a tight hug. “May the Mother guide and protect you.”

“And also you. You remember the code to send with a courier?”

“I do, my lady. Couriers to Braavos, to the Wall, and to Highgarden. All will be well, my lady. You’ll see.”

Ser Dontos called quietly for Sansa and, so with one last clasp of their hands, Sansa and Aly nodded at each other before Aly went down to meet Ser Dontos and Sansa melted back into the night to make her way to the safe house. 

Sansa heard the gentle splashing of the oars moving through the night as Ser Dontos rowed Aly out to wherever Littlefinger’s boat was anchored.

Sansa kept her head down, glad that she was wearing a plain servant’s cloak as she slipped through the city. The whole place felt like it was on edge, just as it had before the Riot. She had to hide from a number of patrols and put some of the tumbling lessons Inigo had taught her to use, climbing up some walls and jumping down others. Eventually, Sansa reached the safe house and picked the lock, making sure the door was secure behind her.

There was a mark on the door showing that the house had already been searched by the Gold Cloaks, but just to be sure, Sansa checked there was no one in the house before hiding in a secret room caused by false walls. Sansa settled in as well as she could for a long night in the dark, slowly nibbling on the cheese and bread Aly had stashed in the cloak for her. Once her food was eaten, she pulled out the Braavosi coin from her pocket and rolled it between her fingers. The feel of it’s bumps and ridges were familiar to her in the dark as she heard the Gold Cloaks return to this street, presumably to search for her once again.

 _I understand why you would want to go to Braavos,_ Varys had said. _This place has hurt you and in Braavos, especially with that coin, you could start a whole new life. But I didn’t choose you as my apprentice for no reason, my lady. I had hoped you would be willing to serve the Realm, not just yourself. You are intelligent and kind, and this Realm needs more intelligent and kind people._

_What would serving the Realm mean, Varys? I’m not staying here, and I don’t trust Lord Baelish as far as I can throw him._

_Not trusting Littlefinger is a smart move, Sansa. Go to Braavos at first, by all means, but if you want to serve the Realm...head for Slaver’s Bay. There is a young woman there that may prove very useful to the Realm. I’d like your opinion on her, and she would do well to benefit from your kindness and counsel. But it is your choice. I only ask that you let me know which choice you make._

Once the soldiers finished searching the house for a second time without finding her, Sansa sighed and tucked the coin back into her pocket. She shifted around, trying to make herself comfortable, and thought through her plans for the next few days. The first thing she had to do was dye her hair with walnut juice; her red locks were too easy to spot, and by darkening with them she’d be able to blend in to the crowd more as she moved around the city. She needed to keep an eye on the Braavosi ship. She knew they weren’t due to leave until Lady Meredyth and Ferregi Antaryon returned to King’s Landing, but she didn’t know if the events of today would speed up or slow down that schedule. She didn’t want to give the Braavosi too much warning that she was coming, however, for fear they would report her to the authorities.

As Sansa drifted off to sleep, she wondered how Aly was doing. Had Littlefinger believed their deception?

* * *

Aly was grateful for the fog that descended as the drunk rowed them out into the harbour. Between the dark and the fog and her hood, she was hopeful she’d be able to fool Littlefinger long enough that they’d weigh anchor and be well on their way before he realised he had the wrong girl. 

Fortunately, she was very good at mimicking Sansa’s voice and they did look eerily similar. It was one of the reasons why the Queen Mother had assigned Aly to be Sansa’s maid in the first place. Aly wasn’t too sure why Sansa had rejected the other two girls, but Aly was accepted as her maid and thus was the Queen Mother’s closest spy to Lord Tyrion.

Aly was rather pleased at what a useless spy she’d turned out to be, in the end. The Queen Mother hadn’t been too happy with the paltry information she’d shared about Lord Tyrion (and she was utterly disinterested in any news of Sansa, which Aly thought was horribly short-sighted of her. Didn’t the Queen Mother realise how dangerous a cornered wolf could be?), but it wasn’t like the Queen had been too forthcoming with her end of the bargain. It was only relatively recently that the Queen had given Aly some of the information she’d come to King’s Landing to seek. Once Aly had agreed to pretend to be Sansa in order to seduce Ser Rohan, a Dornish sellsword who was part of the advance party ahead of the full delegation visiting for the wedding, the Queen Mother had coughed up the rest of the information. Aly was still bitter that she hadn’t been able to keep the diamond necklace for herself, but she knew that while she was pretending to be a lady’s maid such elaborate jewels would raise too many questions.

She hoped someone would strangle the Queen Mother with that necklace one day. Aly had never met such an evil, backstabbing, faithless person in her life, and she thoroughly hoped to never meet her again.

At least Ser Rohan hadn’t been bad in bed. It hadn’t been a completely unpleasant use of her time.

The little rowboat nudged against the side of the ship and Aly was seized with a sudden worry that this charade would be discovered too soon. The drunk seemed to take her hesitation as fear over climbing the ladder, saying “Up you go, my lady. You’ll be fine. You’re stronger than you know.”

Aly carefully arranged her hood so her face was still shadowed and slowly climbed up the side of the ship. As she reached the top, strong arms wrapped around her and pulled her onboard. Surprised, Aly let out a very Sansa-like gasp, then realised who was holding her.

“Lord Baelish,” she said, in her best imitation of Sansa’s voice.

“Petyr,” he said softly. “Are you hurt my lady?”

“No, Lor- Petyr. Just surprised.”

“Good. Good. I’m sure you’ve had quite a fright. Rest easy, the worst has passed.”

He hadn’t tried to look beneath her hood yet, something that Aly was very pleased about. 

“Lord Baelish!” called the drunk. “I promised I’d get her to you safely.”

Littlefinger hushed him. “Softly, my friend. Voices carry over water.”

“I should get back,” replied the drunk in a quieter tone, “before someone thinks to look for me.”

“First, you’ll want your pay, will you not? Ten thousand, was it?”

The drunk agreed and even though her hood was still up Aly fought to keep her scepticism off her face. _Ten thousand? To that old drunk? Hardly. There’s no way Littlefinger will pay that._

Aly was therefore unsurprised when a sailor came forward, not with a purse but with a crossbow, and shot the drunk through the heart.

Knowing she had to react as Sansa would react, Aly let out a scream and found Littlefinger clapping his hand over her mouth. 

“You don’t want to lead them here, do you? A thousand gold cloaks are searching for you, and if they found you, how do you think they would punish the girl who murdered the King?”

“I didn’t murder anyone.”

“No, but it does look suspicious. The King who murdered your father, the King who tormented you for years, dead at his own wedding. And you, Lady Sansa, you who took a lover while your husband was out of town, who gave you this diamond necklace to entice you to run away with him.”

Aly froze as Littlefinger withdrew the elaborate necklace from his pocket, the stones glinting in the faint moonlight as only diamonds could. 

“Where did you get that?”

“Does it matter?”

“Why did you kill him. Will you kill Rohan as well?”

“I killed him because he was a drunk and a fool, and I don’t trust drunk fools. Money buys a man’s silence for a time, but a bolt in the heart buys it forever. And I need not kill Rohan. Like as not, he’ll kill himself once your murderous nature is made known to him. But we need him alive for now, to identify the necklace.”

With that, Littlefinger dropped the necklace onto the drunk’s corpse and led Sansa away as some soldiers reached down with long poles to push the rowboat away from the ship.

“Come, my lady. I know you’ve had a difficult day, but you’re safe now. I promise you that. You’re safe with me, and you’re sailing home.”

Aly kept her head down and her mouth shut as Littlefinger showed her to an elaborate room and bid her to get a good night’s sleep. By the morning, she hoped, they would be far enough away from King’s Landing that even once Littlefinger saw her face in the daylight they wouldn’t be able to turn back.

* * *

Tyrion had been here, alone in the dark, for several days. By his count it had been nearly a week since the wedding — since Joffrey’s death. He’d seen some of the jailors — his former employees — and no one else. None of them had been kindly disposed to him, for all the changes he’d made to their role. Rugen, who Tyrion hadn’t been able to remove from his post after all, had been especially disgusting, openly spitting in Tyrion’s food before handing it over.

His back and arse were starting to go numb from where Tyrion was sitting against a pillar, but Tyrion welcomed it. It was a fitting feeling, given that his soul felt numb. There was a bench in the room, but Tyrion felt sitting on the floor to be more fitting to his station in life.

 _Joffrey, dead,_ he thought. _The little shit is finally dead. And good riddance. But why did they think it was me? And what happened to Sansa? Is she locked up somewhere here too?_

Tyrion had tried calling out for Sansa, for Jamie, for Pod, for his father, for _anyone_ in his first few days here. After getting no response but jeering from the guards, Tyrion decided to save his breath. At least while he could still draw breath.

 _I wonder if I will get a trial, or if they will just leave me down here to rot. Or will my trial go the way of Ned Stark’s?_ Tyrion asked himself as he heard footsteps slowly approaching down the corridor. Tyrion could hear the clinking of a guard’s keys, as well as another set of footsteps.

The door creaked open, and Tyrion’s squire slowly entered the cell, his open and honest face pinched in confusion.

“Oh, Podrick,” said Tyrion. It was so good to see his squire, but humbling to be seen under such conditions. “Apologies for the stench.”

“I brought you some wine, my Lord, but they took it from me,” responded the squire, bending down and fiddling with his boots. 

“A noble effort,” said Tyrion as he watched his squire with detached interest. He was curious as to what the boy was doing, but he was also mostly numb. 

“They didn’t find the candles though,” said Pod proudly as he pulled them from his boot. “Or the quill or the parchment. I brought you some duck sausage as well, as well as almonds, and some hard cheese. It was all I could find.”

“You’re a good lad, Podrick. Thank you.” Tyrion paused, not knowing which question to ask first. In the end, he went with the broadest one. “What are they saying about me, Pod? Out there?”

“You are to stand trial in a fortnight, my Lord, for murdering the King.”

Tyrion tilted his head to the side. “Do you believe I murdered Joffrey, Pod?”

“No, my Lord,” said Pod with a shake of his head. “You didn’t, did you?”

“No!” said Tyrion exasperatedly. “Gods no! The world is a better place without him, but I had nothing to do with it. I would like to think that if I were arranging a royal assassination, I would plan it in such a way that I wouldn’t be standing there gawking like a fool when the King died.”

Pod smiled at that, and Tyrion felt himself smiling back.

“A trial in a fortnight. Have they announced the judges yet?”

Pod took a seat on the sole bench in the room. “Your father,” he began.

“Of course,” mumbled Tyrion.

“Mace Tyrell,” continued Pod.

“Who will vote exactly as my father tells him to.”

“And Prince Oberyn of Dorne.”

Tyrion was surprised to hear that name. “Oberyn? Leave it to my father. He never fails to take advantage of a family tragedy.”

“I’m supposed to get a list of names from you, my Lord. Anyone who might testify on your behalf.”

“Oh, I can call my own witnesses? How generous of them! Very well, my wife. Lady Sansa.”

“My Lord.” Pod paused, looking uncomfortable. “She’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“No one’s seen her since the wedding. Or her handmaiden.” Tyrion could only blink at Pod in shock. “My Lord, you don’t think they…”

The very idea was enough to spur Tyrion to his feet. “No one had more cause to kill Joffrey than Sansa. He tortured her, murdered her father, forced us to be wed...but the girl’s no assassin, and nor was Aly.” 

Podrick blushed at Aly’s name. “Is that fondness for Lady Sansa’s handmaiden, Pod? I had wondered about the two of you, but now is not the time. Whoever killed the King wanted me to lose my head for it, and with my wife’s disappearance, it makes me seem that much more guilty.”

Suddenly, Tyrion remembered the night before the wedding when Sansa had come to his office and they’d traded heated kisses and caresses. _I thought that getting Bronn to train Jamie had meant he longer had time to be her lover, but what if it was something different? What if Sansa knew what would happen the next day, knew she was going to disappear, and this was her way of saying goodbye? To make us husband and wife, fully, before leaving me to my fate?_

Such thoughts made him uncomfortable so Tyrion forced his brain to other topics, such as Pod’s safety. 

“Podrick —” Tyrion stopped with a sigh.

“Yes my Lord?”

“They’ll be following you now.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, they, they! The ominous they! The man pulling the strings — or the woman. My father, perhaps. Maybe Joffrey was too much work for him. Sweet Tommen will be so much easier to handle.” He shook his head. “Whenever something bad happens to me I assume it is my sister who had a hand in it. But say what you will of Cersei, she loves her children. She is the only one I’m certain had nothing to do with this murder. Which makes it unique, as King’s Landing murders go.”

“Any other witnesses my Lord?”

“Varys could vouch for me, if he dared.”

“He’s already been called as a witness for the Queen.”

“Of course. Fetch Bronn, I have a job for him.”

“I’ve already asked my Lord, they won’t let him see you.”

“What? Why not?”

“They say he’s a known cutthroat and your close associate. He’s under investigation himself.”

“My brother,” said Tyrion. He could hear the desperation in his voice. “They’ll at least allow me to see Jaime.”

“I’ll ask, my Lord.”

As his squire got up to leave, Tyrion slumped back down against the pillar and watched his squire depart.

Pod got to the door, then paused, and turned back. “There’s something else, my Lord. A man, I didn’t know his face, he came to ask if I’d testify against you. He said I’d be named Ser Podrick Payne if I told the judges you bought a poison called The Strangler.”

“Ser Podrick Payne. It has a nice ring to it. What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t tell him anything, my Lord.”

“Are you going to accept their offer?”

“My Lord!”

“Testifying against me wasn’t a suggestion, Podrick. If they can’t tempt you with honey, they’ll choose something less sweet.”

“You’ve been good to me, my Lord —” began Podrick, but Tyrion cut him off.

“Pod. The trial’s in a fortnight. They’ll want an answer before then.”

“I already gave them an answer, my Lord. I said no.”

Tyrion surged to his feet in anger. “I will not have you die on my behalf! Do you hear me? If I have to take that long walk to the executioner’s block I don’t want to see your head already mounted there!”

“My Lord -”

“Pod,” growled Tyrion. “I am giving you an order. Go and find my brother. Tell him I need him. And get yourself out of King’s Landing before it’s too late.” Podrick didn’t move, merely looking down at the ground. “Pod! You must go. This is farewell.”

That seemed to spur the boy into action, as he lifted his head, tears visible in his eyes. “Farewell, my Lord.”

Tyrion blinked back his own tears as his squire knocked to be let out of the cell. “Pod,” he called, causing his squire to turn back again. 

“There has never lived a more loyal squire,” said Tyrion as he bowed his head, feeling his own tears spill over.

Pod nodded, his lips pressed tightly together and his tears openly streaming down his face, before turning and leaving Tyrion alone in the dark.


	2. would that I had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin resumed the trial and called the next witness. Soft footsteps made Tyrion turn, and for a second his heart stopped. _Sansa?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m definitely messing with the timeline here guys. The whole Meereen story utterly infuriates me, so I’m going to change as much as I can about it. For now, all you need to know is that Daenerys is still in Qaarth. 
> 
> Some dialogue taken from S04E06 “The Laws of Gods and Men” and S02E02 “The Night Lands”. Also I think I quote Dumbledore at one point in this chapter.

Varys stood in the Throne Room, staring at the empty Iron Throne. It was an ugly thing, really, but a necessary one. Power and authority needed props to back them up, and there wasn’t a better signal in the Seven Kingdoms over power and authority than that chair. 

He sighed, softly. He knew he was going to have to play a delicate game this afternoon at Tyrion’s trial. How much should he reveal? How much should he hide?

He’d told the Small Council that morning that Daenerys Targaryen was still in Qaarth, and it was true, though he suspected she wouldn’t stay there for long. Qaarth had money, but no decent army for the Dragon Queen. Unless she managed to get the Dothraki to join with her and agree to cross the Narrow Sea, Daenerys would need an army. While she could travel to the Free Cities and hire a mercenary company, Varys knew it would be quicker for her to head to Slaver’s Bay and buy a thousand or two Unsullied. But the Unsullied are expensive, and slavery was not accepted in Westeros. Would the Westerosi accept a Queen who won the throne through the actions of a slave army? And what would the Queen herself make of the slaves?

Varys knew it was a matter of when, not if, the Dragon Queen would come to Westeros to claim her throne. Given the intelligence Varys had collected about the financial situation of both the Crown and the Lannisters, he was sure that in the end there would be little resistance to her invasion — particularly once her dragons were sighted.

No, he was not worried about resistance to Daenerys Targaryen. He was worried she’d be madder than her father. Aerys had started his reign with promise before the madness took hold, and Varys hoped that he would be able to help influence Daenerys and stop her from following in his footsteps. 

He’d been ordered by Tywin Lannister to place some of his little birds in the Targaryen camp, and Varys knew exactly which bird would be best to place there. But first, he had to get that bird out of King’s Landing.

Varys had hoped that his little bird would be well away from here by now, but the Braavosi had elected to stay and watch the trial, and so his little bird was stuck here also. Heavily disguised and hidden away, but still. It was enough to make an old spy worried. 

A soft footfall behind him caused Varys to turn and see Prince Oberyn stauntering up the aisle of the Throne Room. 

“Prince Oberyn,” he said with a bow.

“Lord Varys,” said the Prince, leaning on the dock.

“Only Varys,” he corrected. “I’m not actually a nobleman; no one is under obligation to call me Lord.”

“And yet, everyone does,” remarked the Prince. 

Varys shrugged and allowed a sincere smile to grace his face. “How are you, old friend?”

Prince Oberyn laughed and clapped Varys on the back. “I am good, my friend. As well as one can be, when served the swill that passes for wine in this city. You should come to the brothel with me. Meet my paramour, Ellaria. We brought our own wine.”

“Not a vice of mine, I’m afraid,” demurred Varys. “Brothels or wine. Did you spend much time in Essos?”

“Five years. Most people see so little of the world — living and dying in the same small corner. I did not want to be such a one.”

“Not everybody is a Prince of Dorne,” snarked Varys.

Oberyn laughed in response. “There are some advantages to being the second son.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Did the parcel I sent you arrive in one piece?”

“Yes, it did, most satisfactorily. Of course, it didn’t last long in one piece after I took possession of it.”

Oberyn shrugged. “An easy favour to do, to help an old friend in Essos send a present to an old friend in Westeros.”

“I may need to ask you for more favours yet, my friend.”

“I remain in your debt, Lord Varys. If it were not for you and Illyrio, I would have died in that gutter that day.”

“In which case, Prince Oberyn, walk with me. I have many things to tell you.”

* * *

Tyrion followed Jaime into the Throne Room, two guards flanking him as he walked down the long corridor of nobles come to see his trial.

He scanned the crowd as he walked, but there were few friendly faces around. Most glared, or were carefully blank. There were mutters of “traitor!” and “Kingslayer!”, and for a moment there Tyrion felt some kinship with his brother. Apparently the one nickname could be applied to both Lannister sons now.

Tyrion did a double take as he passed one woman, a girl with mousy brown hair and lightly tanned skin. There was something familiar about her, about the way she sat, but he couldn’t place it.

After several weeks alone in the darkened dungeons, the lights and sounds of the Throne Room were almost too much for him.

The guards prodded him as he faltered, and he continued onwards. He stared at his nephew and his father on the dais at the front of the room, and the guards had to lift him into the stand where they chained him in place.

The King stood, and so did the Court. “I, Tommen of the House Baratheon, First of my Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, do hereby recuse myself from this trial. Tywin of the House Lannister, Hand of the King, Protector of the Realm, will sit as judge in my place. With him, Prince Oberyn of the House Martell, and Lord Mace of the House Tyrell. If found guilty, may the Gods punish the accused.”

Tommen descended the dias, and briefly clasped Tyrion’s hand before leaving the Throne Room, his Kingsguards following him. 

Oberyn, Tywin and Mace took their seats, causing the rest of the audience to sit as well. Tyrion noticed he had no chair, and would therefore have to remain standing throughout the entire proceedings. _Lovely,_ he thought. _Yet another indignity._

“Tyrion of House Lannister,” began Tywin, “you stand accused by the Queen Regent of Regicide. Did you kill King Joffrey?”

Tyrion shook his head. “No,” he said petulantly. _This entire thing is a farce. Just execute me and get it over with!_ he thought.

“Did your wife, Lady Sansa, kill King Joffrey?”

This time, Tyrion rolled his head back and shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

“How would you say he died then?”

“Choked on his pigeon pie,” said Tyrion glibly. He heard a surrusation of voices from the audience behind him, and Jaime sent him a look that very clearly said _Cut it out!_

“So you would blame the bakers?”

“Or the pigeons, just leave me out of it.”

None of his family seemed amused by his answer, and Tywin swung the trial into action. “The Crown may call it’s first witness.”

Ser Meryn was up first, outlining all the times he’d seen Tyrion strike, insult, or threaten Joffrey. When Tyrion tried to defend himself by pointing out what Joffrey had done to deserve that behaviour, Tywin had roared him into silence.

Pycelle was the second witness the Crown called, and Tyrion privately thought the old man had never done such an excellent job of looking like a doddering, harmless nitwit as he stumbled through the list of poisons he had in his stores and then accused Tyrion of stealing some of them. 

Then a Dornish sellsword, Ser Rohan, tried to claim that Sansa had taken him as a lover. That they had met in the gardens for passionate trysts since her husband was a deformed devil. Ser Rohan had apparently given Sansa a diamond necklace to show his love and devotion to her. The necklace had been found on the body of Dontos Hollard, the King’s Fool. He was last seen spriting Sansa away from the feast, and Ser Rohan claimed that Sansa had promised they would be together once she’d help her husband murder the King, so that Tyrion would be framed and they would be free to run away to Dorne together.

“I stood in the grounds where we would meet, waiting for her for hours, and she never came,” sobbed the sellsword. “The guards came instead. My love has betrayed me!”

Looking at the snivelling man, his hair stringy and his eyes bloodshot from tears and too much wine, Tyrion didn’t believe a second of it. While Littlefinger had told him that Sansa had slept with a sellsword, Tyrion just couldn’t believe she’d slept with _that_ sellsword. Or accepted that necklace. It wasn’t to her taste at all - far too gaudy. Even after Tyrion had wrested some of the Lannister jewels back from Cersei, he’d seen that Sansa had avoided the most flashy pieces, instead choosing ones that enhanced her natural beauty, her delicate features, the soft curves of her breasts beneath her dresses…

Tyrion clamped down on those thoughts as hard as he could. Thinking of his attraction to his wife hurt. 

Still, Tyrion could tell that the story of Sansa Lannister, man-eater and betrayer of husband, King, and lover, was popular among the audience. Tyrion knew that if he kept his mouth shut, Sansa would most likely be blamed for the King’s death, and he could go free. 

It was a notion that didn’t sit well with him. Yes, Sansa had disappeared, and that was suspicious. But he didn’t believe she had it in her to kill anybody. She was innocent, he was sure of it. Clever and charming and kind and mischievous, yes, but murderous? He didn’t believe it for a second.

Which meant someone was trying to set them both up for a crime neither of them had committed. 

But who? Cersei’s testimony placed the blame squarely on Tyrion due to his dislike of Joffrey, but Cersei was the one person Tyrion was sure would never have poisoned her own son. Varys’ testimony hadn’t helped — repeating the threats Tyrion had made towards the King, and implying that Tyrion’s relationship with Sansa had made him more sympathetic to the Northern cause. 

Tyrion felt a deep sense of betrayal over Varys’ testimony. He’d thought the eunuch was an ally, a friend. Someone who shared Tyrion’s love of learning and intellectual pursuits, even if they differed on their opinions on women and wine. Tyrion couldn’t read the expression on his old friend’s face when he said “Sadly my Lord, I never forget a thing.”

The court emptied for a short break, and Tyrion was left alone, sitting on the floor of the dock since he still didn’t have a chair, with only the guards around the walls as company. They were terrible conversationalists — they insisted on ignoring him, staring straight ahead and barely moving. Tyrion amused himself by wondering if they were actually dead, and simply had been brought back to life somehow.

As the audience started to flood back into the Throne Room, Jaime entered in a flurry of movement and came storming over to Tyrion.

“Not going well, is it?” said Tyrion.

“You’re going to be found guilty,” said Jaime bluntly. 

“No, really?” 

“And when you are,” continued Jaime without acknowledging what Tyrion said, “you need to enter a formal plea for mercy and ask to be sent to The Wall. Father’s agreed to it. He’ll spare your life and allow you to join the Night’s Watch.”

“Ned Stark was promised the same thing,” Tyrion pointed out. “And we both know how that turned out.”

“Father is _not_ Joffrey,” hissed Jaime. “He’ll keep his word.”

“How do you know?”

The court rose as Tywin re-entered and took the Iron Throne.

“Do you trust me?” asked Jaime. 

Tyrion’s brain spun, frantically trying to think through options, but in the end — he trusted Jaime. He’d always trusted Jaime. He nodded. 

“Then keep your mouth shut,” ordered Jaime. “No more outbursts. This will all be over soon.”

Tywin resumed the trial and called the next witness. Soft footsteps made Tyrion turn, and for a second his heart stopped. _Sansa?_

But it wasn’t Sansa. At a glance, the woman looked like her. She had the right height, the right hair, the right general appearance, but...it wasn’t Sansa. His Sansa had a sense of innate grace that this woman lacked, and as she crossed in front of him, he could smell roses. Sansa had never smelled of roses as long as he’d known her. She’d always smelled of lemons.

The fake Sansa claimed to be Aly, Sansa’s maid. She listed off the people that Tyrion apparently hated (whoever had coached her for this role was certainly right about that), then claimed that Tyrion had stolen poison from Maester Pycelle to put in Joffrey’s wine.

When asked how she knew all of this, the fake Aly declared that she had been Tyrion’s whore. The fake handmaiden claimed that after tricking him into marriage, Sansa had been fickle on their wedding night, turning Tyrion away. Enraged with lust, he’d taken ‘Aly’ to bed instead. He’d horrified her, but she’d been too scared to push him away. 

“I did everything he wanted,” she said. “Whatever he told me to do to him; whatever he felt like doing to me. I kissed him where he wanted, I licked him where he wanted. I let him put himself where he wanted. I was his property. Lady Sansa refused to bed him, so I would wait in his chambers for hours so he could use me when he was bored. He ordered me to call him ‘my lion’, so I did. He ordered me to do all sorts of things, and I did them. I was scared that if I didn’t, he would kill me. He is a cunning, depraved man. Some of the things he did to me...I knew that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill me. I was so scared!”

The fake Aly dissolved into tears and Tyrion had to admire her performance. Oh, she was most likely ruining his reputation and dooming him to either a life on The Wall or a short trip to the executioner’s block, but she was clearly giving the performance of her life and, as a consummate liar himself, Tyrion could recognise a skilled act when he saw one. 

“Even after they had been married for several years, Sansa still wouldn’t let Tyrion into her bed. So he promised to kill Joffrey for her, thinking she would be so pleased with him that she’d finally take him to her bed. For weeks, whenever he came to me at night, he’d fuck me in the dark, moaning ‘Sansa, Sansa. I’ll do it for you. I’ll kill him for you.’”

Absently, Tyrion noticed that her impression of him was rather good. He wondered if he was going into shock.

“He was never more aroused than on the nights when Sansa refused him,” the actress continued. “He was like an animal on those nights. He liked to take me from behind, to fuck me so all he could see was my hair. He loved running his hands through my hair, pulling at it when he was fucking me or when he was forcing me to take him in my mouth. He’d make me howl like a wolf while he roared like a lion as he took me.”

The audience erupted into murmurs of horror at the things he had apparently done and Tyrion closed his eyes in defeat. If his father was willing to go to these lengths to frame him, he was done. He may as well go and live out his days on The Wall — if his father didn’t have him killed on some distant road before he could get there.

Tyrion barely heard his father sentence him to The Wall. The murmurs of the crowd behind him rose and crashed over him like waves over rocks, his thoughts spinning and whirling and dragging him down.

Tyrion did hear his father strip him of the family name, however. He was Tyrion Lannister no more.

* * *

Sansa’s shoulders slumped with relief as the ship cleared the harbour and began to sail across of the Bay. She’d done it. She was free of King’s Landing, free of the Lannisters...and free of her husband.

She’d gone to the trial, in the end. She felt she owed her husband that much. He’d been kind to her, and part of her hurt, leaving him behind to face the consequences for Joffrey’s death. But she couldn’t work out how to take him with her. Thanks to walnut dye, her hair and skin were a different enough colour that even Tyrion hadn’t recognised her as he’d walked past her, merely an arm’s-length away, as he’d been led into the Throne Room. She was confident that if he couldn’t recognise her, no one would.

But the Lannister Imp...he would have been harder to disguise.

Sansa had briefly wondered if she could smuggle him out of the city, perhaps in a trunk of some sort, to let him out when they were safely away at sea, but she’d dismissed that thought. He was a noble creature, her husband, and he’d never allow such an insult to his dignity.

Moreover, Sansa couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he wouldn’t simply turn around and return to Westeros out of loyalty to his family. His awful, cruel, twisted family, who he still loved for some reason. Still cared for.

More than he cared for her, Sansa was certain.

So in the end, she’d stuck to the plan. She’d watched the trial, watched him be stripped of his duties, his titles, his freedom...even his name. She’d watched him be sentenced to join the Night’s Watch, a fate she was sure he’d think was worse than death. 

He’d told her about his visit to The Wall on one of the quiet nights they’d spent together, sitting before the fire, reading and sharing a drink. She’d just finished Longstrider’s _Wonders Made by Man_ and had asked Tyrion which ones he’d seen. He’d admitted he’d only seen The Wall.

“It was surprisingly beautiful, really,” he’d mused, “in a brutal, horribly uncomfortable sort of way. I, well…” he’d stopped, looking awkward for a moment, but had continued thanks to her gentle prodding. “I pissed off it.”

“You what?!”

“I wanted to piss off the edge of the world.”

“Tyrion!” Sansa had pretended to be scandalised (a few years ago she would have been, but she’d been in King’s Landing for long enough now that there was little that truly shocked her to hear about anymore).

“Your bastard brother was watching! The last I ever saw him was when I shook his hand — after pissing and before washing it.”

At that point, Sansa hadn’t been able to hide her amusement anymore and had laughed until her stomach ached. The very picture of it, her husband pissing off the edge of The Wall, Jon standing there awkwardly watching...it was all too funny.

Once she’d gotten her laughter under control, Tyrion had continued to talk about The Wall. He’d admitted it was an impressive sight, and that he was glad to leave it. He hated the cold, and the shoddy wine, and the cold…

He really hated the cold.

Alone in her cabin, Sansa shed a tear for her husband, now headed for the place she knew he’d never wanted to go, but dried her eyes before she could get too blotchy, remembering her mother’s warnings about their shared complexions. _It doesn’t do to dwell on might-have-beens, Sansa,_ her mother had said once when she was crying over some childhood slight.

After the trial had ended, Sansa had made a quick visit to Varys (who’d seemed utterly unsurprised by her changed appearance) and had headed for the docks. Lady Meredyth and Ferregi Antaryon had returned to King’s Landing the day before the trial, and now that was over, she was certain they’d set sail quickly.

She had a cover story ready to go — an abusive husband, a friend who had given her the coin, the desire to not be identified onboard so her husband couldn’t track her down and drag her home — but she hadn’t needed it once she’d shown the Captain the coin. 

“This...how did you…?” he’d asked, his accent soft and lilting.

Sansa had straightened her spine and stared him right in the eyes. “Valar Morghulis,” she’d said, offering no more explanation.

He’d touched his fingers to his forehead and replied, “Valar Dohaeris. Of course you shall have a cabin. And no one shall know who you are, I will swear upon it, Dolarosa. No one will hear from me, or from my men, that we carry one such as you to Braavos. You have the word of Benito Dandi, the finest captain to ever sail for Braavos!”

And so she’d boarded the ship, and remained in her cabin until the captain had come to tell her that they had sailed past Dragonstone — they were officially in the Narrow Sea.

She was headed for Braavos.


	3. The Bastard Daughter of Valyria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While you are still able to use the Lannister name, my lady, _use_ it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are definitely heading into AU territory! I hope you stay with me (I promise Sansa and Tyrion will be reunited, don’t worry), and if I’ve missed something or something isn’t clear, please let me know in the comments and I’ll try and clarify!
> 
> My inspiration for Braavos is going to be heavily inspired by La Serenissima in Jacqueline Carey’s _Kushiel_ books (particularly _Kushiel’s Chosen_ ), up to and including stealing names for minor characters from there.
> 
> In this world, Valyrian steel can slice through chains. Is that the same as in GRRM’s world? Probably not. I’ve also decided that calling English the ‘Common Tongue’ is really...rude? So I’m referring to it as Westerosi.

Tyrion stumbled as he was pulled from the dungeons and thrust into the darkened courtyard. He could make out the shape of two horses waiting in the courtyard — one with a mounted man upon it, and the other wearing a familiar saddle.

He’d designed that saddle, long ago. It was what had helped him know how to design a saddle for young Bran Stark. 

The guards shoved him and, with his hands still manacled together, he couldn’t stop his fall. He landed in something suspiciously squishy, which made the guards grumble and wipe their hands on his back after they picked him up and slung him over the spare horse, not even taking off his manacles beforehand.

He didn’t even have time to scramble fully into the saddle before the other rider took off, Tyrion’s horse on a lead. Tyrion found himself clinging onto a stirrup leather and frantically trying to make sure he didn’t slide off as the horses thundered through the tight, winding stone streets of King’s Landing. The clatter of hooves meant that conversation was impossible and, in any case, Tyrion was too busy making sure he didn’t slide off to hail the person leading him through the city at a breakneck pace.

Eventually, they burst from the city and as best as Tyrion could work out, from what he could see beneath his horse’s hooves, they had headed into the Kingswood. Finally they slowed to a walk, and then a stop, and Tyrion let go of his stirrup leather and slipped to the ground.

“I’ll take it from here,” said Jaime from somewhere above Tyrion, and Tyrion hauled himself off the ground to see Jaime take the lead rein of Tyrion’s horse in exchange for a purse of gold. The person who had led Tyrion here grunted and wheeled his horse away.

Tyrion stared at his brother who stared back.

“Are we just going to stand here all night, or are you going to get back on your horse so we can get going?” asked Jaime.

“There is one slight problem,” snarked Tyrion as he held out his hands, still bound in manacles.

“Get over here, then.”

Tyrion stumbled his way over to Jaime — this damned forrest was _dark_ , and it was only the faint moonlight reflecting off Jaime’s grey horse and armour that meant Tyrion could spot him at all.

“Hold the chain taut.”

Tyrion did as he was bid and Jaime sliced down with a flash of his sword.

The chain shattered, but the manacles remained around Tyrion’s wrists. “At least now you can hold the reins. Mount up.”

Unsure of what exactly what was happening, Tyrion cast around for a suitable rock or fallen tree he could use to mount his horse, muttering under his breath the entire time about high-handed older brothers.

Eventually, he was able to get himself properly situated in the saddle, and they headed deeper into the Kingswood.

“Mind telling me what’s happening? Where we’re going?” asked Tyrion after a while, as he found himself almost dozing off in the saddle. He had no idea what hour it was, but this was more activity than he’d done in weeks and it was tiring.

“You’re going to The Wall.”

Tyrion halted his horse in shock. “What? I am? This isn’t a rescue?”

Jaime turned his horse back to look at Tyrion. “This isn’t a rescue. You are going to The Wall. And you should be grateful.”

“Grateful for what? The opportunity to live and die in a frozen wasteland as punishment for a crime I did not commit?”

“Grateful that you get to live just a little while longer. I’m sure The Wall isn’t that bad.”

“You’ve never been there, have you? It is that bad. It is worse than bad. It’s a frozen wasteland of terrible men, worse wine, and no women for miles. Can you think of a worse place for me?”

There was silence for a while as Jaime refused to rise to Tyrion’s bait.

“Why are you taking me? Surely the Knight Commander of the King’s Guard has more important things to do than escort a prisoner to The Wall.”

“I’m not the Knight Commander. Not any more. It was part of the deal.”

“What deal?”

Jaime sighed in frustration. “If we ride on, I’ll explain on the way.”

Reluctantly, Tyrion urged his horse on, and Jaime began his tale.

“I made a bargain with Father to save you. To save your life. In exchange for you being spared the death penalty, you would take the Black, and I would renounce my place on the Kingsguard and take my place as Father’s heir. The suggestion was barely out of my mouth before he agreed. ‘When the testimonies are concluded and the guilty verdict rendered,’ he’d said, ‘Tyrion will be given the chance to speak. He’ll plead for mercy, and I’ll allow him to join the Night’s Watch. In three days time, he will depart for Castle Black and live out his days at The Wall. You’ll remove your white cloak immediately. You will leave King’s Landing to assume your rightful place at Casterly Rock. You will marry a suitable woman, and father children named _Lannister_.’ He seemed particularly hung up on that point.”

Tyrion was silent for a moment, but his curiosity was too strong. “But it hasn’t been three days.”

“No, it hasn’t been. But I was to leave immediately so, if I wanted to get you out of King’s Landing, I had to do it tonight.”

“But why are you taking me from King’s Landing? And why are you insisting I head to The Wall? Can’t I come with you?” Tyrion hated how plaintive he sounded then, just like he’d sounded when Jaime had been sent to Crakehall in their youth. 

“You are going to The Wall, and I am going to Casterly Rock, because that is where Father has decreed we are to go. And we are going where he says because it’s the only way I can think of to keep you alive. I’ve already lost a son; don’t make me lose a brother as well.”

Jaime’s admission of Joffrey’s relationship to him made Tyrion fall silent. It was an open secret these days, but still, to hear Jaime speak of it…

“Surely you want to stay close to King’s Landing? For Tommen?”

Even in the low light Tyrion could see Jaime flinch.

“Tommen will be fine. He has Father with him, and the Kingsguard.”

“Joffrey had Father with him, and the Kingsguard, and you.”

“Tommen is not Joffrey,” snapped Jaime.

“And that may well be his saving grace,” agreed Tyrion. “But it still doesn’t explain why you would leave him.”

“I can’t fight anymore.”

“We’ve had this argument. You can fight with your left. Bronn was training you.”

“And all that training has shown is that I can’t beat a stableboy with my left hand. I will never be as good as I was with my right hand. The King needs the best around him, and that is not me. Not anymore. He’ll be safe with Father, and the Kingsguard.”

“You really believe that?”

“I have to believe it, or I’ll go mad. Besides, I’m...tired. I’ll be 35 this year, Tyrion. I haven’t really been home since I was 11. I was raised to the Kingsguard 20 years ago, and what do I have to show for it? An increasingly large collection of scars, a stump for a right hand, and three children I cannot claim as my own, one of whom just died in front of me. I’ve had enough. I’d’ve stayed in King’s Landing, stayed and protected Tommen and Cersei as long as I could, but when Father ordered me out of the city...all I felt was relief. My fight is done. Tommen will be a good King. I’ll go back to Casterly Rock, Father will send me a ‘suitable’ wife, and I’ll live out the rest of my days pottering around being Lord of the Rock. Breed horses or something. I’m sure Willas Tyrell could give me some pointers, one crippled heir to another.”

Tyrion stared at Jaime, his mouth agape. “You’ve already gone mad. You? Happy pottering around Casterly Rock?” Tyrion scoffed. “I give you little more than a month before you’re back on a horse, haring off to do dashing knightly deeds from one side of the Westerlands to the other!”

Jaime just smiled. “Maybe.”

They rode in silence for a bit before Tyrion spoke again. “That doesn’t explain why you’re the one taking me to The Wall if you are meant to be going to Casterly Rock.”

“I’m not taking you to The Wall. I have a friend heading up that way. I’m hoping they will escort you.”

“Doesn’t the Night’s Watch have people for this sort of thing?”

“When’s the last time you saw a wandering crow in King’s Landing?”

“...before Ned Stark was killed.”

“They’ve avoided the city ever since. Now, you could have been left in the dungeons until one turned up again, but who knows when that would be. Which is why Father planned to send you North in a few days with a complement of Lannister men.”

“So why are you interfering in his plans?”

“You normally aren’t this thick, little brother. Did being in a cell for a few days ruin your brain? There’s no guarantee you’d reach The Wall alive with them. With my friend, you will.”

Tyrion mulled over Jaime’s statements, and was irritated to find that they were logical and well-reasoned. He wasn’t used to Jaime being able to out-reason him. Jaime dealt with physical things, Tyrion with mental things, that’s how it’d always been. It stung that Jaime had worked all of this out before Tyrion could.

“Wait...since when do you have friends?”

* * *

“Oh Sansa, isn’t it _wonderful_?” asked Merry, leaning as far over the side of their gondola as she could, craning her head to try and take in as much of Braavos as possible as their craft navigated up the Canal of Heroes. Ferregi laughed and held firmly to the back of her dress, stopping his bride from tumbling over the side of their gondola in her desire to see everything the Secret City had to offer. 

Sansa was hard-pressed not to gape with wonder herself. Braavos was very different from either the North or King’s Landing. Huge, pastel-coloured houses rose along the Canal of Heroes, splendid and majestic, with balconies and winding stairs leading down to various quai. Sansa stared at the painted and gilded statues of the deceased Sealords that lined the Canal of Heroes, as well as the small gondolini painted in bright colours and rich with gilt and carvings. Down the smaller side canals, Sansa could see a riot of colours, and the scents of a hundred different foods drifted through the air, mixing with the salty-silty scent of the Canal.

After sailing beneath the Great Titan, they’d made the briefest of stops at Chequy Port before disembarking properly at the Purple Harbour, in a berth right near the Sealord’s Palace, as befitting Ferregi’s status as one of his sons. They would be introduced to the Sealord in time, but for now they were heading for the Forel residence, near the Temple of the Moonsingers. From the maps she’d seen of Braavos, Sansa was sure there was a more direct route from the Purple Harbour to the Palazzo Forel, but it seemed Ferregi wanted to show his city off to his new bride, and Sansa could understand why. It was a gorgeous city. 

Sansa was hard pressed not to stagger when they reached the quai outside the Palazzo Forel. She’d been at sea so long that her legs insisted she was still on a ship, and all at once she felt weary and salt-stiffened and in dire need of rest and a bath. She was glad that their official introduction to the Sealord of Braavos was to be delayed.

Though it was late afternoon when they had docked at the Palazzo Forel, Sansa ordered a bath, then went straight to bed and slept for a solid 12 hours. She was safe here, she could feel it, and so she could finally rest.

When Sansa awoke the next morning it took her a few moments to realise where she was. Her sleeping-chamber was directly off a balcony, and it was a strange and wondrous thing to see ripples of light reflected from the waters of the Canal playing over the walls of her chamber. She rang for a maid, and one of the maidservants brought her tea and sweet pastries, stuffed with fruit, lightly spiced and covered in powdered sugar. 

“My lady,” began the maid, “what do you wish to wear today?”

Sansa gestured to her trunks that were stacked neatly along the walls and the maid winced.

“I am not sure the fashions of King’s Landing will be...suitable for meeting the Sealord,” murmured the maid. “The Lady Allegra has offered some of her dresses, and you are of a size.”

“Lady Allegra?”

“Lord Inigo’s wife.”

* * *

The maid, Leonora, had brought a selection of dresses for Sansa to try, and Sansa had settled on a gown of apricot silk with a fine gold brocade, her hair braided and tucked into a mesh caul covered in seed pearls. The fit of the dress was nearly perfect, though Sansa’s fingers itched to adjust it. It pinched slightly over her bust, and she wasn’t used to wearing clothes she hadn’t made herself. Or clothes in such bright colours.

But before Sansa could take to her clothes with a needle and thread, first she had to meet the woman who was gifting — lending? — her the clothes in the first place, Lady Allegra. In all the time she’d spent with Inigo, he’d never mentioned a wife. Leonora showed Sansa into the solar, where Inigo was sitting, holding the hand of a comely woman, perhaps five or so years older than Inigo, her brown hair falling down her back in gentle waves.

“Sansa! Good morning. May I have the honour of introducing to you my wife, the Lady Allegra Forel?”

“Lady Forel,” curtsied Sansa. “Many thanks for allowing me into your home, and the loan of this lovely dress.”

“Lady Lannister, I’m so pleased you came. Inigo has told me so much about you since you arrived last night, I feel I know you already. Oh, and that dress looks so splendid on you! Apricot doesn’t suit my colouring at all, but on you, why you fair glow! Is this your first time in Braavos, my lady?”

Lady Allegra’s Westerosi was lilting and gentle, and faint lines crinkled at the corners of her grey-green eyes. Sansa smiled at the kindness shown to her by her hostess. “Yes, my lady. My first time out of Westeros.”

“Well, you have picked a grand time to arrive! The Sealord’s Festival always shows Braavos at it’s best. Inigo, you must make sure she sees everything.”

“Of course, my dear,” he agreed, smiling fondly at his wife. “In fact, if it pleases you, we will leave now. The Sealord will be wanting to meet Lady Lannister.”

They found Ferregi playing a game of catch in a courtyard with a merry, curly-headed boy, while Merry sat to one side with a slightly older girl, teaching her a Westerosi clapping game. 

“My children, Lucio and Sabrina.” The children raced over to embrace their father, who affectionately ruffled Lucio’s hair before gently pulling on one of Sabrina’s braids. “Thank you for entertaining our guests, but I believe you have lessons to get on with?”

“But Papa! We haven’t seen you in months!”

“In months and months and months and months!”

“Well, you will see me for many more months after your lessons today. Run along now.”

With a gentle shove, Inigo pushed his children towards waiting attendants, and Ferregi and Merry joined their departure. 

As their gondolini moved through the canals towards the Sealord’s Palace (and Sansa was right, there was a more direct route), Sansa was distracted by her questions about Inigo’s family by trying to calm Merry’s fears. 

“But what if he doesn’t like me?”

“He will love you, ñuha vēzos, because I love you.”

“What if he only speaks to me in Valyrian? My Valyrian is awful, just awful, I can’t follow half of what you are saying!”

Seeing that Ferregi was getting nowhere trying to calm his bride down, Sansa reached out her hand. “Peace, Merry. You will be fine. We worked on your Valyrian the whole way across the Narrow Sea and you are much improved. What is the formal greeting?”

“Valar Mog-mor...morghulis?”

“Valar morghulis, that’s right. And he will respond ‘valar dohaeris’, and things will be fine. If he does not speak in Westerosi then Ferregi, Inigo or I can translate for you.”

“Oh, it’s easy for you to say Sansa! You’re so clever, knowing Valyrian like this, and you never had to worry about what would happen if Tywin Lannister didn’t like you, you were married anyway!” Merry’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. “Oh, Sansa, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I know the early years of your marriage were difficult...you must miss Tyrion so much.”

Sansa smiled, but was spared an answer as they entered the courtyard of the Sealord’s Palace, it’s golden spires and domes glittering in the sun. 

They were received in the Room of Shields, a room where a vast fireplace roared, even in the middle of the day. Sansa felt sweat start to form at the base of her neck under her hair, and discretely tried to fan herself as she looked around the room. The walls were covered in shields, some of them Westerosi, many of them not. There were some designs she recognised — the coat of arms of several minor Westerosi houses — but many more she did not. Some of the shields looked like nothing she’d ever seen before — rounded, or oval, in all sorts of materials. Some looked to be made of the hide of a yellow animal with brown spots, while others glistened like steel after rain. At least one looked to have been made of dragonskin!

Ferrego Antaryon sat on a wooden chair in front of the fire, beneath the coat of arms of his house — a laughing jester’s mask on a sable background.

The rumours were true — even across the room, Sansa could tell that the Sealord was sickly and failing. His flesh was frail-seeming and sunken, and his entire body trembled with the palsy. The ancient dome of his skull looked vulnerable beneath the peaked crimson cap he wore, and Sansa was unsure how he was able to lift his hand with the heavy Sealord’s seal on it. 

_“Father!”_ Ferregi crossed the room with quick strides, while Sansa, Merry and Inigo held back. Ferregi knelt before his father and took his shaking hand into his own sure one.

_“Ah, my son. You have returned.”_

_“I have indeed! And with much to tell you.”_

Ferrego raised his other hand and gently smoothed down his son’s hair, the gesture nearly identical to the one Inigo had used on Lucio that morning. _“Oh? Tell me, does the news have to do with those pretty women standing in the door?”_

Laughing, Ferregi stood and gestured for Merry to approach. Merry cautiously crossed the room and sank into a full curtsey before the Sealord, her pale blue skirts with small golden cranes stitched into them flaring out around her.

_“Valar morghulis, your Grace,”_ she said, her trained singer’s voice ringing out clearly across the room. For all her nerves earlier, Merry was a high-born lady of The Reach, and she was not one to be unsettled by meeting an old man. _“I am Lady Meredyth, formerly of House Crane,”_ she said, careful not to butcher her Valyrian pronunciation. 

_“Valar dohaeris, my child,”_ the old man, before switching to Westerosi. “What brings one as lovely as you to our city?”

“The Lady Meredyth is my wife, father,” said Ferregi, taking Merry’s hand and helping her to her feet, tucking her close to his side. 

“Ah, so you finally found a woman who would put up with you. How much did you offer her?”

“Father!” “My lord!” protested Ferregi and Merry over each other. Merry placed a restraining hand on her husband’s arm and continued. “My lord, I love your son. He is kind, and clever, and treats me as I am precious and valuable. As the eldest daughter of House Crane, I wanted for nothing. Really, if anyone was going to marry someone for money in this relationship, I suspect it would be your son marrying me for mine!”

“Is that so?”

“That is indeed so, your Grace,” said Sansa, gliding forward. “House Crane is one of the wealthiest in Westeros, and it is well known that while serving as the Sealord has brought House Antaryon honour, it has not brought them great rewards.”

“And who are you, fire-hair, who would come into the Sealord’s house and speak against him so?”

“I am Lady Sansa, born of House Stark and wed to House Lannister.” Sansa wasn’t sure if she was still considered wed to House Lannister since her husband had been stripped of his name and sent to The Wall, but after so many years of calling herself Lannister it seemed natural to her.

“Ah.” The old man looked her up and down. “Yes, that makes sense. Pride, stubbornness, and red hair. You would come into the Palace of a foreign king and tell him what to do.” Ferrego’s severe face cracked into a smile. “Ah, Westerosi women. There are none like them. Come, my child, walk with me in the gardens and tell me about you,” he said to Merry. “And you, Sansa Stark-Lannister...you will dine with me tomorrow. I imagine you have much to tell an old man such as myself. I suspect some of it will also be correct.”

As Inigo led Sansa from Room of Shields, she felt as if a fog was lifting from her mind.

“Inigo...what was that? That wasn’t me! I know better than to speak to a king like that!”

Her guide chuckled as he navigated them through the Palace. “The Room of Shields is an interesting place, is it not? The walls covered in defensive motifs like that, they catch the eye. Keep you from noticing the Draft of Truth that has been added to the lamp oil and scents the room.”

“But wouldn’t that also affect the Sealord?”

“Yes, but the old man is very, very good at lying by telling the truth.”

* * *

The gaunt man sitting opposite her tapped his fingers slowly on the desk as he looked her up and down, then looked at Inigo standing beside her, then down to the report on his desk. His chin almost disappeared into the ermine colour of his sober purple cloak as he read through Doho’s report.

Their friend had met them inside the doors of the Iron Bank and escorted them to Tycho Nestoris. Or rather, the waiting area outside of Tycho Nestoris’ office.

“He is in charge of the Iron Throne loan,” Doho had explained as they’d waited for entry into Tycho’s office. “It is to he that I report. It is also he that you can ask for monies from, as a member of the Westerosi Royal Family.”

“I highly doubt I am still considered a member of the Royal Family! My husband was tried for the murder of the King, and his name and titles stripped from him!” Sansa had whispered harshly, casting a worried eye on the people strolling through the corridors. “While I am still considered married to Tyrion by the Law of the Seven Kingdoms, I doubt fleeing from King’s Landing in highly suspicious circumstances is going to recommend me to the Iron Bank!”

Inigo had snorted, and even Doho had looked amused at her statement.

“My Lady, I told you — we think differently here. I told you you would be honoured if you came to Braavos — by the Bank, if no one else.”

Before Sansa could voice any more of her concerns, the door to the chamber had opened and they’d been ushered through to Tycho.

But that was then, and this is now. Frowning, Tycho sat back and steepled his fingers.

“So. The young sadist is dead.”

“He is, loan-holder. And thus our chances of getting a good return on our investment in Westeros have increased precipitously.”

“As your report says. You have that much faith in Tommen, First of His Name?”

“I have that much faith in Tywin Lannister. The Old Lion has many fights in him since, and the alliance they are building with the Tyrells of Highgarden ensures that the financial situation of the Iron Throne remains solid.”

“The loan to the Iron Throne is backed with promises of Lannister gold. Were you able to corroborate the rumours we have heard about the mines of the Westerlands?”

“It appears those rumours were overstated, loan-holder. Some of the smaller mines are indeed dried up and those towns abandoned, but overall gold still pours out of the ground and into the Lannister coffers.”

“Excellent. In which case, Lady Lannister, how much would you like to borrow against the account?”

“Pardon me, my lord?”

“Not a lord, Lady Lannister, not a lord at all! We don’t have such things here, and if we did, I should not want to be one. I presume, as a member of the Royal Family, you have come to borrow some spending money for your time here in Braavos? Not a problem. I’m sure this whole thing with your husband will be cleared up in no time, and the usual accounts will be made open to you once again. But the Iron Bank is certainly happy to help out the daughter of a valued client in her hour of need.”

Sansa blinked, but before she could say anything, Doho stepped smoothly in. “Thank you, loan-holder, the Lady Lannister is touched by your offer. If I may suggest that the loan be substantial? Due to the...difficulties back in King’s Landing, the Lady Lannister comes to Braavos with little more than the clothes on her back. If she is to stay any length of time here in Braavos she will need a large amount of coin.”

“For a Lannister bride, we are happy to lend any amount,” smiled Tycho as he gestured a guard forward holding a small chest. 

Doho looked at the symbols stamped on the top of the coffer and nodded. He grinned at Tycho, who nodded in return. “We shall add it to the Lannister account,” said Tycho, and dismissed them.

As they left Tycho’s chamber, the guard accompanying them with the coffer, Inigo kept his hand clamped tightly on Sansa’s arm, and she knew better than to ask how much money she’d just been lent while they were still in the Iron Bank.

Once outside, she had barely even opened her mouth before Inigo whispered “It’s equivalent to 40,000 of your Gold Dragons, now keep walking,” and pulled her along.

“Forty thousand! I can’t take that much!”

“You can and you will. The Iron Throne is already in debt to us of over six million Gold Dragons — another forty thousand means nothing. While you are still able to use the Lannister name, _use_ it!”

* * *

Tycho Nestoris stood at the window in his chamber, watching as the young Braavosi shepherded Lady Lannister into a waiting gondolini.

“Are you sure this is the right decision?” he asked, hearing his companion come up behind him.

“Yes,” she said simply, the red jewel at her neck reflected in the window.


	4. Brightroar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is said in Westeros that when a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin — either madness or brilliance. It sounds like it landed on madness for this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of this chapter have been liberally taken from Jacqueline Carey’s _Kushiel’s Chosen_. Dialogue has also been taken from S05E01 ‘The Wars to Come’ and S05E08 ‘Hardhome’.

Sansa smiled with pleasure as she looked over the waters towards the many temples on their isles. It was time for one of the prettiest parts of the Unmasking, the War of the Flowers — a mock battle between the sons and daughters of the richest families in Braavos. Sansa and Merry, through their association with Inigo, Doho and Ferregi, were counted in that number, and the Westerosi ladies thoroughly enjoyed their time in the City of a Hundred Isles. 

Sansa couldn’t remember when she’d last laughed so much, danced for so long, or drunk so copiously. Merry had certainly lived up to her name, and Sansa felt like all her childhood dreams were coming true; she was in a beautiful city, with a wardrobe of gorgeous gowns and more money to her name than she felt she could ever spend (though a fair chunk of it had gone to her new wardrobe. The fashions here were amazing). Some of the young Braavosi nobles had even been courting her — gently, softly — and it was only her uncertainty about whether she was still considered married that stopped her from considering their suits more seriously.

“You can take a consort if you want, even if you don’t know if you are still married,” Allegra had said to Sansa one evening as they watched Ferregi play with his children in the courtyard. “It’s very common here.”

It didn’t feel right to Sansa though. She’d been married in front of the Seven, and by the Seven, she was still married.

She did enjoy being flirted with, however. She wasn’t about to let anything more happen, but she was enjoying the attention. Being married to Tyrion so young had meant that she’d never really been courted and flirted with like this. It was...interesting.

For the War of the Flowers, Sansa and Merry, as well as the other young women, had been taken to a small fortified palace perched on one of the lesser isles, overlooking the Sept Beyond the Sea. When the women had been ferried across to the palace, they had found bushels of flowers — roses, geraniums, gladioli, love-in-a-mist, orchids, and violets — had been provisioned for them, along with painted eggs, blown hollow and filled with scraps of bright confetti or coloured flower.

The women leaned from the tower windows and watched the young Braavosi men cross the canal in a vast armada of gondoli, their oars flashing in the sunlight as they made their way to ‘take’ the tower.

When they arrived on the island, shouting with laughter and high spirits, the women pelted them with their armaments of flowers and eggs, filling the air with flower petals and confetti. The men ducked and dodged, pleading with the women to let down the rope ladders and let them ascend the tower. One of the Braavosi women, giving into the desperate pleads of her beloved, threw down one of the ladders and he scrambled up. He swept her into a kiss, then signaled his victory to the others below before going to open the seagate.

It was a charming afternoon, full of laughter and high spirits, and Sansa felt more homesick for the quiet of Winterfell than she had ever felt before.

* * *

“No.”

“You’re already going in that direction!”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“He’s my brother.”

“No.”

“You’re the only person I trust to get him there alive.”

Pod and Tyrion swung their heads back and forth as they watched Jaime plead with Brienne of Tarth. Tyrion was highly amused to see that a) Brienne of Tarth was taller than Jaime and b) was more stubborn than Jaime. He liked that.

“You’ve already given me one burden — a boy who can’t ride, who can’t fight, who can’t bloody cook. Now you want to give me another?”

“You swore an oath to find Lady Sansa and take her somewhere safe. That means going to Castle Black. My brother needs to go to Castle Black, you are going that direction, therefore, you can take him there.” Jaime said it as if it was simple.

“I swore an oath to return the Stark girls to their family — _away_ from the people who had trapped them here in King’s Landing. Taking Lady Sansa’s husband with me when I go searching for her is hardly in line with that!”

“Then take Tyrion to Castle Black, drop him off, and resume your search. If, when you get to Castle Black, Lady Sansa is already there, well, you can figure something out. You’ll have delivered Tyrion to Castle Black so that task is complete, and you can swear allegiance to Lady Sansa or ride off into the wilds beyond The Wall, whatever pleases you. I promise you, my brother will be no bother.”

Brienne sent Jaime a look that could have flayed him alive. “Your brother. The Imp. No bother.”

“Well, if he is a bother, I trust that you can handle him. Brienne, please. You’re the only one I trust.”

Tyrion didn’t know Brienne of Tarth other than by her reputation, but he could see her softening. 

“Fine.”

“ _Thank you_ ” Jaimie breathed with obvious relief. “You’ll find extra provisions in his saddlebags — I presumed that with him travelling with you, you’ll want to avoid inns as much as possible.”

Brienne turned from Jaime’s bright smile with a mutter, and gestured for Pod to help her set up camp for the night. 

Jaime looked on as Brienne stormed away, then came over to where Tyrion was holding their horses.

“So, this is your mysterious friend,” teased Tyrion.

“Oh, shut up. The Maid of Tarth is the most honourable person I know. If she says she will take you to Castle Black, she will take you to Castle Black or die trying.”

“Wonderful. So you have found me an honest jailer.”

“I’ve found you someone I trust to keep your useless hide alive and in one piece. You won’t do anything to jeopardise that.”

“Or else…?”

“Or else nothing. Tyrion. Go to Castle Black. Join the Night’s Watch and live out your days on The Wall, and consider yourself lucky that you are well out of the pit of snakes that is King’s Landing and the politics of the Red Keep. I’ll write when I’m settled at the Rock.”

“That’s it? ‘Here’s your jailer, off you go to rot at the end of the Earth, I’ll write eventually?’”

“Well, there is one more thing.” Jaime pulled the smaller of the two swords from his belt. It was in an awkward position, and there was no way he’d’ve been able to draw it in the heat of battle. Tyion had been wondering why Jaime was carrying it.

“Here. If one half of Ned’s Stark sword is going north,” he gestured at Brienne, “then it’s only right that the other half go north as well.”

Slowly, Tyrion reached out and took the sword he’d last seen wielded by Joffrey. “This was your son’s sword. Shouldn’t you keep it? Or shouldn’t it go to Tommen?”

Jaime shook his head. “It’s the wrong sword for me. But it will work for you.” He avoided the second question. “Tyrion, I can’t keep you safe. You’re my little brother, and I have failed in keeping you safe for almost all of your life. I’ll never stop being sorry for that. But I can ask the most honourable person I know to take care of you, and I can give you the means with which to defend yourself.”

Tyrion carefully pulled the sword from the scabbard and heard the Valyrian steel sing as it came free. The sword was wonderfully balanced in his hand, and the jewels on it caught the light. “What did Joffrey call it again?” he asked absently as he tested the sharpness of the blade against the base of his thumb. The blade sliced cleanly, and blood welled up immediately from the small cut.

“There, you’ve bled on it, it’s yours now,” said Jaime. “And Joffrey called it Widow’s Wail.”

Tyrion pulled a face. “Gods, that’s...awful. No, that won’t do. I’ll have to call it something else.” A thought crossed his mind and he curled his lips into a gloating smile. “I know. I’ll call it Brightroar.”

“Brightroar.” Jaime didn’t seem amused.

“Why not? Perfectly good name for a sword.”

“Father is going to hit the roof when he finds out.”

“How is he going to find out? I’m not going to tell him. And for all you still call me brother, he disowned me. I’m Tyrion Hill now. Why shouldn’t I call my sword Brightroar?”

“You’ll always be Tyrion Lannister to me.”

“And you’ll always be a fool,” grumped Tyrion, trying to fight down tears. This was goodbye, he knew. He was for The Wall and unless Jaime decided to come and visit him, this was the last time they’d ever see each other. “I suppose this is goodbye then.”

Jaime nodded, and grabbed Tyrion in a hug, pressing a kiss to Tyrion’s curls. “Farewell, little brother.”

Jaime pulled back, and whatever he saw in Tyrion’s eyes made him nod before standing and walking away.

“Jaime!” called Tyrion. “Thank you. For my life.”

“Use it well, little brother. Use it well.” And with that, Jaime Lannister swung himself into his horse and set off into the encroaching twilight. He didn’t look back.

Tyrion dashed the tears from his face, and carefully belted his new sword around his waist.  
As he approached the fire that Pod was carefully coaxing to life, Brienne looked up at him.

“My lord.”

“Not a lord any more, my lady, just Tyrion.”

“Well, Just Tyrion, have you ever cooked a rabbit?”

“No, my lady.”

“First things first: skin the rabbit before spitting it over the fire.”

From the way that Pod flushed at this statement, Tyrion knew there was a story there. As he settled beside the fire and took the proffered rabbit and knife from Brienne, he wondered if in time, he’d learn what that story was.

* * *

All around them, Braavos heaved with with locals and visitors drunk on joy, on life, and especially on their winnings. That afternoon, the city had crushed itself into the bridges and canals surrounding Ragman’s Harbour for the Palio horse race. Now that the race was done, it was time to celebrate.

Riders from various neighbourhoods, or contrada, had raced their horses along the narrow pathways beside the canals, bareback and with only the lightest of bridles on their mounts. The jockeys had been chosen from each neighbourhood based not only on their riding ability but also their ability to cheat: betrayal was common, guile was prized, and many of the riders bribed each other in the open before the race had even started. The riders whipped their horses (and each other) with cured distended bull’s penises, and there was only one rule: do not interfere with the reins of another horse.

Sansa had watched the whole thing from a balcony high above the start line. The riders began from the small area of flat land in Ragman’s Harbour, racing towards the Inn known as The Cattery before crossing Nabbo’s Bridge then doubling back across the canal on Nauvoo’s Bridge and twisting through the limited pathways back to Ragman’s Harbour. 

Inigo and Ferregi had shown Sansa and Merry the route the riders would take the previous day, and the women had been stunned at how sharp some of the turns were, and the fact that in several places, the horses would have to jump the narrower canals to continue on the track. At one point, the riders would have to jump across a canal four times in one stretch, just to stay on the narrow track that for some reason weaved across a waterway.

“If they take this corner wrong, they will fall and land in the canal,” noted Inigo more than once as he showed around them the route lined with flags and banners. “Each rider rides for the pride of their contrade, but each contrada meets its horse for the first time just four days before the race. Us Braavosi are better known for riding boats than horses, so being chosen to ride for your contrada is a great honour.”

“Have either of you ridden for your contrada?” asked Merry as they were ferried across one of the canals the horses would need to jump.

“I did indeed, my lady,” answered Inigo. “I rode as well as I could for my beloved Wave.”

“La Contrada dell’Onda, or the Wave, is the contrada we both grew up supporting,” explained Ferregi. “Unfortunately, Inigo is a better swordsman than he is horseman.”

“I made it to the end!”

“But you did not win.”

“Surely there is honour in at least completing the race!”

“Not as much honour as there is in winning it.”

With that, the two men had devolved into wrestling more suited to boys half their age, while Sansa and Merry had carefully stepped out of the gondolini and onto solid ground, leaving the gondolier to try and keep the boat upright with two wrestling noblemen in it. The gondolier’s face indicated that this sort of thing happened all the time, and he really wished it wouldn’t.

Their vantage point that day had been high enough that not only could they see the start and the finish of the race, but also see when the horses had crossed the two high arched bridges as part of the race. The Wave had not been victorious that day — the Oca, or Goose, had won the Palio — but the Wave’s rider had stayed on his horse until the end, and that was reckoned good enough by Inigo (even if Ferrigi grumbled about it). 

“Useless fucking informants!” With that exclamation, Doho threw himself into a chair at their table and slumped over so his head was on the table.

Inigo gave it a gentle pat, and poured his friend a cup of wine. “Was it worth missing the race for?”

Doho drained his wine and rolled his eyes. “Nothing that couldn’t have waited until after the race, but you try telling that to the loan-holders. I swear, those dried up old cunts have forgotten what it feels like to be young.” After saying that, he seemed to notice Sansa and Merry at the table for the first time. “Pardon me, ladies, for using such unsuitable language.”

The two women laughed. “No offense taken,” smiled Sansa.

“I’m sure I’ve used worse at some point or another,” deflected Merry. “But what has you so worked up, my friend?”

“Reports from Slaver’s Bay. Our agents in the area have been growing concerned recently, and sent one of the informants to us here to report on the situation. The loan-holders decided that the report was urgent, and called an emergency meeting of loan-holders and their agents. Which meant I had to miss the Palio. I’m guessing that we did not win?”

“Oca won, but we at least finished.”

Doho shrugged. “Could be worse. There’s some pride in finishing at least.”

Inigo crowed his victory in the debate between him and Ferregi, while Ferregi downed his wine with a roll of his eyes.

“So what news out of Slaver’s Bay?” asked Ferregi over Inigo’s continued boasts.

“Astapor has fallen.”

With that, Inigo fell silent. 

“To whom?”

Doho looked around to see if anyone was listening in. 

“No one is listening, Doho. Most of this lot are so drunk they don’t know where they are any more. The harlots will be doing a brisk trade, as will the City Guards. No one is listening, so tell us who Astapor has fallen to!”

Doho leaned in and dropped his voice, and the others at the table followed suit. “Astapor has fallen to Daenerys Targaryen. She has three dragons, a Dothraki khalasar, and now all of the Unsullied.”

“ _All_ of the Unsullied?”

“All of them. She purchased all the Unsullied within the walls of Astapor, even those who had not finished their training. Then she immediately had them sack the city, striking the chains off every slave they came across and killing every man and woman wearing a tokar.”

The table sat in silence as they digested this information.

“What happened then?” asked Sansa.

“With the city in flames, the Targaryen woman led her new army north. It appears she is making for Yunkai, to free the slaves there and depose the Wise Masters.”

“And leave chaos in her wake.”

_”The Seven Kingdoms need someone stronger than Tommen, but gentler than Stannis or Tywin. A monarch who can intimidate the High Lords and inspire the common people. A ruler loved by millions with a powerful army and the right family name,” Varys had said to her before she left King’s Landing. “There is such a person in Essos. If you are so inclined...visit her. See what you think. And if you like what you see, help her get to Westeros.”_

Sansa took a sip of her wine. “It is said in Westeros that when a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin — either madness or brilliance. It sounds like it landed on madness for this one.”

“Or maybe not. Our informants tell us that she has acted this way mostly because of her hatred for slavery. She was sold into marriage, after all. It may be that it is personal.”

“So why were the loan-holders concerned?” asked Inigo.

“Other than the fact that the Good Masters owed us a lot of money, and the Wise Masters even more?”

“Yes, other than that!”

“If this Dragon Queen is determined to stamp out slavery in Slaver’s Bay, would it not be wise to seek council from a city of former slaves? Besides, there is the question of where she will go after she conquers Yunkai.”

“Presumably Meereen.”

“Where the Great Masters owe us even more money. So the loan-holders wish for me to go, and sort out the situation. See if this young woman is willing to listen to reason — or to pay us back. What say you, Inigo, Ferregi? Ready for another adventure?”

Ferregi drew Merry’s hand into his. “What do you say, my love? Shall we stay here and start our family, or shall we embark on a different adventure?”

Merry’s face split into a wide grin. “We can start a family at any time, but when else will I get the opportunity to meet a Dragon Queen? We made a vow, husband. Several of them. One of them involves me going with you wherever you want to go.”

“And I will go with you wherever you want to go, my heart,” Ferregi responded before pulling Merry into an enthusiastic kiss.

“Lady Sansa? Will you come with us, or stay here in Braavos? I know of several young men who would be thrilled to see you remain in the city without us.”

Sansa spun her cup on its base, watching as the liquid swirled inside it. “When I first arrived in King’s Landing, I heard rumours. Very few rumours, of course — my Father kept me away from politics as much as he could — but even I heard the rumours of a baby born during the worst storm in human memory, two or three years before I entered the world. She had no wealth, no lands, and no army; only a name and a handful of supporters, most of whom probably thought they could use that name to benefit themselves. They kept her alive, moving her from place to place, sometimes only hours before the men who had been sent to kill arrived. Around the time I reached King’s Landing, she was sold off to a warlord at the edge of the world, and as far as the majority of people thought, that was the end of that.”

Sansa paused to refill her cup, noticing that even Merry and Ferregi had stopped kissing and were paying attention to what she was saying.

“Now there are new rumours of this woman. The girl without wealth, lands, and armies is now a woman grown, in possession of all three. Plus dragons. And all of this in a very short period of time.”

She drained her cup and smiled at her friends. “Let us meet this Dragon Queen, if for no other reason than fascination with how quickly she has risen in the world.”

_And if I like what I see,_ thought Sansa, _I’ll see if I can...encourage her to come to Westeros. She can hardly be worse than the Lannisters, and if Varys believes in her, I’m inclined to trust her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brightroar was the ancient Valyrian greatsword belonging to House Lannister, but it was lost ages ago when King of the Rock Tommen II Lannister when he went to plunder Valyria after the doom. He never returned, and ever since House Lannister has been searching for a replacement sword. Tywin Lannister has apparently been offering to buy Valyrian greatswords from poorer, lesser Houses to replace Brightroar, but no one is willing to sell (wonder why). So if he ever hears that his disinherited son now has a Valyrian sword called Brightroar? Tywin will hit the roof. 
> 
> Some readers may recognise the Palio as the Palio di Siena, the famous horse race held each summer in Siena (it was also in the start of _Quantum of Solace_ , though sadly James Bond did not wield a bull’s penis whip). I got most of my information on it from this New York Times article. The Braavosi version is more cross-country than the Palio, as there is nowhere in Braavos big enough to put a track. So instead the horses run across a section of the city. Does this fuck up their legs? Yes. Do the Braavosi care? Probably not.
> 
> Also, I've had a truly rubbish week, with my depression and anxiety deciding to screw me over once again. So thank you to everyone who is reading this story — your hits and kudos and comments really help brighten my day and make me realise that everything isn't 100% terrible.


	5. The Long Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was it he’d said to Jon Snow the last time he’d rode north? ‘A mind needs books like a sword needs a whetstone’? It was just as true now as it was then. By the time they got to The Wall Tyrion was fairly sure he’d be as dumb as a rock.
> 
> And frozen just as solid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve taken a bit of inspiration from Jacqueline Carey’s _Kushiel’s Dart_ in this chapter, as I love that book so much.

Sansa was fairly sure she’d never feel clean again. She’d thought the trip from Winterfell down to King’s Landing had been long and arduous, but that was a gentle outing in the park compared to the long ride that was Braavos to Slaver’s Bay. Sansa had always known she was a pampered, privileged young lady, but when she’d travelled in the King’s retinue she’d never had to skin and gut her own meals after a long day in the saddle.

At least this trip hadn’t involved the death of a beloved pet. That was something.

“Fin ajjin she yeri yothnhare, Virzeth Veri?” asked Azzi, bringing her horse alongside Sansa’s elegant bay mare.

Sansa picked through the sentence, and worked out what her friend was asking her. She liked the name her Dothraki friends had given her — Red Wolf. To them, she wasn’t just a pretty court adornment; she was a useful member of their khalasar. She’d helped keep watch at night, gotten used to raising and striking camp, and her nimble fingers were helpful at skinning some of the smaller game they caught as they rode along. Her skills with a needle and thread had proved useful after they’d had a small skirmish with another khalasar when they’d crossed through their territory.

As both Khal Onobo and Inigo had agreed that their skills with a blade weren’t yet good enough for actual combat, Merry and Sansa had armed themselves with their bows and arrows and had been stationed with the pack animals. The Westerosi women had thought they would be well out of the action, but the opposing khalasar had been cleverer than Khal Onobo had predicted, and a few Dothraki had snuck around the side of the main fight, thinking that the pack animals and the pretty ladies would be easy prey.

But Merry was an excellent huntress, and Sansa had ensured she’d never forgotten what Chella had taught her. The two Westerosi ladies had stood their ground, picked their targets, and coolly fired once the charging Dothraki warriors were in range of their bows.

Not a single pack animal had been lost, and their khalasar had gained several new horses after Merry and Sansa had shot their riders clean off them. It had been Sansa’s first battle, and she didn’t see what all the fuss was about. It was a bit messy and loud, but it was all over so _quickly_. The aftermath took longer than the actual fight.

As they’d sat around the campfire that night, eating the flesh of the horses too badly wounded in the battle to keep, cleaning and sewing the more serious wounds their khalasar had received, Sansa and Merry had both been celebrated by the khalasar and toasted with several rounds of airag and each had a small bell braided into their hair.

Ferregi had then pulled Merry away from the campfire for their own celebration, and while several Dothraki had offered to _celebrate_ more with Sansa, she had turned them all down. The high of the battle had ebbed by then, leaving her feeling dry and tired, and anyway, the first time she had sex with someone, she wanted it to be in a nice, clean bed. Not in the grass, stinking of horse and sweat and death.

Looking at the pile of blood stained arrows that Sansa was sorting through to see which ones she could keep and which ones were too damaged for further use, a dagger on her hip, dried blood caked under her nails and a small bell braided into her hair, the young Dothraki men had laughed and shoved at each other when Sansa had turned them down. 

“Do not upset Virzeth Veri!” Ago, the comedian of the bunch, had yelled. “She will rip your throat out with her red teeth!”

The nickname, born through battle and blood and too much fermented mare’s milk, had stuck. Sansa loved it. She felt it was truly hers, and was slowly adding the Red Wolf, her very own sigil, to her clothing.

Very slowly. Unsurprisingly, there was very little time for sewing when riding from one end of a continent to the other through often hostile lands, and although Sansa had worked out she was able to do basic mending in the saddle as she rode, anything more elaborate needed stillness on her behalf. Stillness that was not easy to come by, even on her smooth gaited mare.

Sansa had been surprised when she’d learned that they would be seeking the services of a khalasar to take them south to Slaver’s Bay. She’d thought that they’d be sailing there — the Braavosi were much more comfortable at sea than on horseback, after all — but the risk of piracy around Tyrosh and Lys was considered too high, especially combined with the dangers inherent in sailing the Smoking Sea and the uncertainty about who held the mouth to Slaver’s Bay. Thus, the overland route was considered safest.

There were a few khalasar who lived near the Andalos Mountains that were considered very nearly ‘civilised’ by the Braavosi, engaging in trade rather than raids with the city. They were the source of the horses for the Palio, but no contrada had yet worked out that the Dothraki were hardly handing over their best horses for stupid Braavosi to ruin on their stone streets.

Khal Onobo was a relatively young khal, with a small khalasar, who had made his name for being a fair man, who treated all with respect. He treated the Braavosi with respect and took their money, and treated other Dothraki with respect and took their lives.

This, he thought, was very fair.

His khaleesi, Kisi, was an especially clever woman, widely respected within the khalasar and even among some Braavosi as a wise woman. She’d had Sansa and Merry in tears of laughter as she’d described how a Braavosi noblewoman had sought Kisi’s aid in removing a blood curse from a bundle of jewels and coin. Kisi had sworn that burying the items under the birthing-spot of an all-white foal would remove the curse. Suffice to say that when the noblewoman returned to the spot — neatly marked with a stake and a snow-white ribbon — three days later, the curse had been removed — as had the jewels and coin.

“It is a kindness to liberate such things from the possession of a fool,” said Kisi complacently as she fingered the elaborate necklace hanging around her neck.

Merry had snorted and responded with telling an old story from the Reach about one of the old Gardener Kings, King Gwayne the Fifth, who was the first Gardener King to be born into the Faith of the Seven and become a knight. He was said to have magical powers that waxed and waned with the sun — his might would triple by noon and fade as the sun set. These powers, Merry said, were the result of a curse put on the young Gwayne by an old crone when he had turned down her affections. 

“Of course, some believed it was just that he was lazy, and didn’t like to stir before noon anyway!” giggled Merry at the end of her story.

Those of their party within earshot laughed along with Merry, and Sansa offered up a story of her own that she’d learned as a child in the North, about how King Rodrik, an ancient Stark ancestor, had won Bear Island in a wrestling match with a bear as a result of a bet from the Ironborn. When defeated, the bear turned into a beautiful woman, and King Rodrik was so surprised and amazed that he’d immediately gifted the island to the bear, and gone on to father several children with the bear-witch.

The Dothraki nodded at this.

“It makes sense for one of your blood to have mated with a bear-witch, Virzeth Veri,” said Ago. “Why take a horse-lord to your bed when you can have a carnivore?”

“My husband was a lion,” said Sansa, her eyes fixed at some far off point.

Kisi, watching Sansa like a hawk, saw the pain in Sansa’s face and was about to ask more, but Merry distracted the party with a query about what that bird was, over there — no, not that one, that other one!

Later that night, as they’d settled into their camp for the night, Kisi approached Sansa. “Are you okay, little one?”

Distracted, Sansa looked up. “Oh, yes, yes, I’m fine.”

“You do not look fine,” said Kisi as she sat beside Sansa at the outskirts of the fire, the light barely reaching them. Kisi handed Sansa a skin of airag, and absently Sansa was proud that she no longer flinched when the sour liquid hit her tongue.

Sansa screwed her face up. “I did not part on the best of terms with my husband. Things between us got...complicated.”

“He is there, and you are here. How is this complicated?”

“I don’t actually know where he is. He was meant to go North, to The Wall, but I don’t know if he will get there. He may be dead now, for all I know.”

“Then you should live your life as if you are a free woman! Ignore Ago, he is a buffoon, but Pokharqo is a talented lover. He would take good care of you.”

Pokharqo was a very handsome man, Sansa thought. He had laughing black eyes, a sensuous smile, and a husky voice that Sansa could very well imagine whispering in her ear as they lay together. But it didn’t feel right. She could still remember how Tyrion felt that last night, when he’d pulled her into his lap, his hand tangled in her hair and his lips on hers. She wanted that again. Not someone else. 

“Logically, I know I could take a lover. I can live as free as I want and never go home again. But in my heart…” Sansa sighed. “I was married in the sight of the Seven. It wasn’t beneath the heart tree at Winterfell as I’d always imagined, but I am married. Was married. No, _am_ married. No septon has relieved me of my vows, and I doubt I will find one anywhere near here to do so.”

“And your vows are that important to you?”

“Yes, they are. My mother’s people, their words were ‘Family, Duty, Honour’. My honour, my pride, is bound up with doing my duty to my family. He is my husband. It is messy and awkward and strange, but he remains my husband until death has parted us — not an ocean, not a continent, but death. If I was going to stay here in Essos maybe it would be different. But I don’t want to stay here.”

“You don’t?”

“Oh, please, Kisi, I meant no disrespect. I have thoroughly enjoyed travelling with your khalasar!”

“And we have enjoyed having you, Virzeth Veri. At first we thought you and the other were just pretty songbirds, who would fade and die through the hardships of the road. But you are not like songbirds — you are _mihe zir_. Small and pretty and sweet, with blood on your claws.”

“Thank you?”

“You are welcome, Virzeth Veri. You and Mihe Ziri both.”

“I am sure Merry will be thrilled with her new name, as I am with mine. You must point one of these birds out to me so I can make her a sigil.”

Kisi flapped her hand. “You Westerosi and your little pictures of animals. Why are they so important to you?”

“They remind us who we are, and where we come from.” Sansa took another drink, and continued on from her earlier train of thought. “Even if Merry is happy to stay in Essos for the rest of her life, I am not. One day, I _will_ go home. I will take back my home, and take my vengeance upon those who have hurt me and my family. They dismissed me as a little girl, but I am not a little girl. Winter is coming, and so are the wolves. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. I am Virzeth Veri. And if my enemies do not think I have teeth, then it will be all the sweeter when I rip out their throats.”

* * *

Tyrion was fairly sure he’d never be warm again. He’d thought it was cold the last time he’d travelled North, but that had been years ago, while summer was still strong. Winter was imminent now, and the cold whipped through his coat and pierced down to his very bones.

As a boy, he’d laughed when he’d first learned the Stark words. “‘Winter is coming!’”, he’d chortled. “Of course it does, it’s a season!”

He’d been much more impressed with the words of other houses — ‘Ours is the Fury’. ‘Righteous in Wrath’. Even the words of his own house were more impressive than a mere weather forecast.

But as he’d grown older, he’d begun to appreciate the simplicity of the Stark words, and understood their subtlety. Their words were implacable and honest, like the Starks themselves. Their words showed an understanding of the constant change of time, and the ability to face hard times head first. 

They were also as pessimistic as Tyrion could imagine, though given how godsforsakenly cold their part of the world was, Tyrion figured a little pessimism was understandable.

He wanted to blow on his fingers to warm them, but that would mean removing his gloves first, and his fingers would certainly drop off immediately.

Tyrion looked over to where Brienne was riding along, head uncovered and hands bare on the reins, and wondered how she could stand it. She was from Tarth! The Stormlands were much further South than Casterly Rock! How was it she could cope better with the cold?

Tyrion was jolted out of his dark thoughts by Pod’s horse crashing into his own, and Rook showing his displeasure but attempting to take a chunk out of Plodder’s face.

Brienne halted and scowled at them as they sorted their horses out. As Tyrion maneuvered Rook away from Plodder, he wondered why Pod was still having so much trouble with his horse. They’d been on the road for weeks by now, surely long enough for the boy to become a halfway decent rider.

As Pod gave him a bright smile and kicked Plodder on to ride alongside Brienne so Pod could pester her with questions about fighting from the saddle, Tyrion started to think. He looked at how his former squire was sitting on his horse, and how Plodder was now walking along nicely beside Justice, and wondered just how much of Pod’s ineptitude was faked so that people underestimated him.

Then Tyrion realised that yes, he had just been distracted out of his angry thoughts through the machinations of a boy generally held to be an idiot, and felt like a complete halfwit.

What was it he’d said to Jon Snow the last time he’d rode north? ‘A mind needs books like a sword needs a whetstone’? It was just as true now as it was then. By the time they got to The Wall Tyrion was fairly sure he’d be as dumb as a rock.

And frozen just as solid.

Just as he was working himself back into a proper funk, Brienne decided that they had ridden long enough today, and led them off the road into a clearing. 

They’d avoided inns and wayhouses on this trip, given that they were a little too distinctive — a statuesque blonde woman dressed as a man, and the Imp of Lannister.

Or, not of Lannister anymore. The Imp of the Westerlands just didn’t have the same ring to it, Tyrion felt.

Once they had made camp, it was time for Tyrion’s least favourite part of the day: combat training.

On the surface, it was ridiculous. Tyrion barely came up to Brienne’s waist — barely came up to most people’s waists. Pod was a little shorter though, and so Brienne had them work against each other, calling out the strikes for them to attack and defend against. Then they would swap to axes. Tyrion would then mount Rook, and practice fighting from horseback against Brienne — which somewhat helped with the height difference, though the Maid of Tarth’s reach was still bloody long. While they did that, Pod would get the fire started, then afterwards, when Tyrion was rubbing down Rook and starting their dinner, Pod and Brienne would spar in earnest.

Many an evening had found Tyrion poking at their food over the fire to the sound of clanging steel and the frequent call of “nope!” from Brienne and an annoyed grunt from Pod as he’d gone in for the attack and Brienne had neatly stepped aside or countered the strike.

It was awful. He hated it.

...it wasn’t that bad, truly. It was a long way from what he was used to, and how he wanted to live his life, but the weeks travelling together had taught Tyrion that Brienne had a surprisingly dry sense of humour. Very deep down. Probably. 

It was obvious that the Maid knew exactly what she was doing both in combat and on the road — she’d taken the time to teach both Pod and Tyrion the basics of tracking, and identifying different animals from their tracks and spoors. Pod was by far the best archer of their small group, and so it was he who took the shots, but Tyrion was proud when he’d learned enough to know the difference between a Roe deer and a Fallow deer from their tracks alone. 

Tyrion still wasn’t thrilled with the idea of living out the rest of his days at The Wall, but he realised that between the actions of Jaime and Brienne, he would have days left to live out.

And he might actually be vaguely useful to the Night’s Watch, something he’d’ve said was nigh impossible for much of his life.

* * *

“Huh.”

“...well.”

“It’s...something.”

Sansa and Merry looked over to the pitted and crumbling yellow walls of Yunkai. It was nothing like the cities they had seen in the past. Even King’s Landing was prettier than Yunkai, and the capital of the Seven Kingdoms was a complete dump compared to the elegant canals of Braavos.

“She’s here? Why?”

Oqhak zo Ledho shrugged. “The Dragon Queen is here, that is all I know. She is staying in a camp on the outskirts of the city, rather than in the city proper. I can show you.”

Their party looked at Yunkai and could see why the Dragon Queen had chosen to stay outside the city. Most of it was covered in smoke, or missing. The fight had clearly been hard, and if Sansa squinted, she could make out that all of the bodies impaled on stakes around the city walls were wearing a distinctive outfit.

“What are they wearing?” asked Merry.

“ _Tokar_ ,” replied Oqhak. “The clothing of the wealthy and the Wise Masters.”

 _Oh_ thought Sansa. _So the Dragon Queen is out for blood._

After Khal Onobo told the wary Dothraki guards that they had come to pay their respects to the Dragon Khaleesi, and that these Braavosi nobles had come to pay their respects also, they were disarmed and led to the Queen.

They picked their way down the roadway lined with attentive Unsullied, their weapons finely honed but missing any marks of battle. Sansa was used to watching for these marks now — they’d had four more skirmishes on the road south, and their khalasar had been victorious every time. Five bells now rung from her and Merry’s braids, evidence that Mihe Ziri and Virzeth Veri had blood on their claws, and knew how to fight.

The sound of the bells would almost have been pretty, if you didn’t know that sound meant a strong khalasar was nearby.

Their party was lead through the tidy, well-ordered camp in such a way that made it very, very clear that the Dragon Queen had a considerable fighting force under her command. Kisi drew close to Sansa and Merry and pointed out the different factions — Dothraki, Unsullied, and mercenaries. The sea of warriors stretched as far as the eye could see.

They were led to the Queen’s tent and searched once again for weapons before being let into the tent.

“You come before Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.”

The Dragon Queen was smaller than Sansa had expected. Smaller and slighter and only a few years older than her and Merry. She looked at the bells braided into her hair and wondered how such a small woman could cause so much trouble in the world.

Then Sansa remembered the bells braided into her own hair, and looked at the dragons arranged around Daenerys, and smiled. _This should be interesting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where did I get the Dothraki in this chapter? From [this](http://lingojam.com/DothrakiTranslator) Dothraki translator! And the Dothraki and Ghiscari names came from [this](http://www.fantasynamegenerators.com/game-of-thrones.php) awesome fantasy name generator.
> 
> Mihi zir is basically a shrike — a pretty little songbird with a habit of impaling it’s meals on thorns to eat them later.
> 
> Gwayne V Gardener is an actual character from [The World of Ice and Fire](http://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Gwayne_V_Gardener), and I’ve smushed him together with some of the legends of Sir Gawain of the Knight of the Round Table for the heck of it.
> 
> [Rodrik Stark](http://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Rodrik_Stark) was a King in the North who won Bear Island in a wrestling match. However, this wrestling match was apparently with the Ironborn, not a bear. Sadly.
> 
> Airag is a drink made of fermented mare’s milk by Mongolians.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented last week! You helped me feel much more cheerful (a stronger dose of antidepressants is also definitely helping).


	6. Virzeth Veri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sansa Stark is headed for Winterfell?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S04E01 ‘Two Swords’, S05E01 ‘The Wars to Come’ and S07E03 ‘The Queen’s Justice’.

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. “And who are you?”

Sansa and Merry stepped forward. “Your Grace,” they said as they dropped into the correct curtsey to meet a Queen and held it. Sansa felt her muscles, stiff from months in the saddle, start to complain at holding the graceful position for so long, but she refused to waver.

“This is my wife, khaleesi. Lady Meredyth, formerly of House Crane of Westeros, now of House Antaryon of Braavos. Called Mihe Ziri by the Dothraki, for her voice and the blood on her claws.”

Merry arose from her curtsey and placed her hand on her breast, smiling brightly at the Dragon Queen. “Your Grace, greetings from House Crane,” she said in her musical voice.

“House Crane. That is a House of the Reach, is it not?”

“Yes, your Grace.”

The Queen hummed, and turned her gaze to Sansa. Before Inigo or Kisi could step forward to announce her, one of the knights at the Queen’s side spoke up.

“You are Sansa Stark.” 

Sansa looked up at the younger of the knights. “I am, ser. You have me at a disadvantage.”

“I am Ser Jorah Mormont. Your father sentenced me to death.”

She’d heard of him. It had happened when she was young, but her father had often used Jorah Mormont as an example when teaching his children. Sansa’s muscles began to scream but she would not rise from her curtsey until the Queen gave her leave to. Sansa could see approval warring with interest in the young woman’s gaze as she watched the interplay between her protector and the young Westerosi.

“I believe my father sentenced you to death for trading in slaves. Given your Queen’s well-known aversion to slavery, do you not dispute that this was correct?”

Ser Jorah snorted. “You are definitely a Stark.”

“She is,” agreed the other knight. “Lady Stark was at Court in King’s Landing when I was dismissed from the Kingsguard.”

“What is a Stark of Winterfell doing here?” asked the Queen, and Sansa smoothly stood. “Your father led the rebellion against mine.”

“After your father burned my uncle and my grandfather alive, your Grace.”

Daenerys looked at her for a long moment, then inclined her head. “From what I have heard, my father was an evil man. On behalf of House Targaryen, I ask your forgiveness for the crimes he committed against your family.”

“As the eldest living Stark, and the heir to Winterfell, I accept your apology, your Grace. As to why I am here...well, that is a long story. It would be best told over airag and a meal.”

* * *

“Sansa Stark is headed for Winterfell?”

Pod nodded, his mouth full of cold rabbit leftover from dinner the night before, then swallowed. “Yes, m’lady. She is being accompanied by Petyr Baelish and a host of knights — ten, at least that I saw. Perhaps more. From their sigils they looked to be Knights of the Vale.”

“Baelish married Lysa Arryn. She’s Lady Sansa’s last living relative. If she had indeed murdered Joffrey, running to her aunt would have made sense. So why has she left the safety of the Vale?” mused Tyrion.

“You’ve said you were sure she did not murder the King,” reminded Brienne. “You’ve said that multiple times. At length.”

Tyrion shrugged. “I know my wife. She’s not a killer.”

“Nevertheless,” said Brienne, “She’s nearby and heading for Winterfell.”

“So do you still need to find her?” asked Pod. “I mean, she’s heading for Winterfell. I saw her. She’s going home, where she’ll be safe. She’s in the company of her family — or at least her uncle by marriage. What does that mean for us?”

Brienne stood and paced back and forth, deep in thought.

“Before Lady Catelyn’s death, I was her sworn sword. I gave my word I would find her daughters and protect them. To take them home, or to their family, whichever they wished.” She stopped and looked into embers of the fire still smouldering in the early morning light. “That promise does not change. After we have delivered Tyrion to Castle Black it will not be hard to travel to Winterfell to meet with Lady Sansa and offer my sword to her. If she does not want my service, there is another daughter. One of the two will want my service.”

Brienne nodded to Pod. “Strike camp. We are three days from Castle Black. Our plan to go there shall continue and, after we have delivered our parcel to Castle Black, we will visit Lady Sansa at Winterfell.”

Tyrion wasn’t sure which he objected to more — being called a parcel, or the fact that Brienne was deliberately keeping him from seeing Sansa again.

 _Then again,_ he thought to himself as he kicked dirt over the coals of the fire with prejudice, _Winterfell isn’t_ that _far from Castle Black. I may be able to visit, eventually. Or perhaps the Night’s Watch won’t accept me, and I’ll be free to go where I want._

* * *

Sansa and Merry stood with Daenerys and Missandei, looking over the ocean as the khaleesi’s army marched behind them. Sansa and Merry were both fully armed, having displayed their ability with their bows (and Sansa her sword) and proving they were not just pretty songbirds.

“Have you ever been to Meereen?” the Dragon Queen asked the women accompanying her.

Merry and Sansa shook their heads, while Missandei answered yes. “Several times, your Grace, with Master Kraznys.”

“And?”

“They say a thousand slaves died building the Great Pyramid of Meereen,” said Missandei, sadness in her voice.

“And now an army of former slaves is marching to her gates,” commented Sansa. 

Daenerys smiled at her new advisor. “Do you think the Great Masters are worried?”

Sansa smiled and stroked the red wolf embroidered on her dress. “If they are smart, your Grace.”

Footsteps behind them made the women turn, the bells in their hair jangling as they did so, to see that Daario Naharis, the commanding officer of the Second Sons was approaching.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Daenerys stiffen. “You were told to ride at the back of the train with the beasts,” drawled the khaleesi as she turned back to the ocean, clearly dismissing Daario and his blue beard.. 

He refused to be dissuaded, however. “Yes, my Queen. But I need to speak to you about something important. A matter of strategy.”

Daenerys raised her eyebrows, and looked to Missandei, who stared back. After a short, silent conversation, Missandei said “your Grace,” and withdrew.

Sansa and Merry echoed her and followed, stopping by their horses and turning back to watch as Daario produced several different flowers and attempted to charm their queen.

“He’s persistent, I’ll give him that,” murmured Merry. “Do you think he has a chance?”

Missandei shook her head. “The Khaleesi wants to rule Westeros. She may take him to bed, but she’ll never let him into her heart.”

Sansa glanced back to where she could see Ser Jorah riding along on the far side of the column of soldiers, glaring at the roguish commander of the Second Sons. “Someone should really tell Ser Jorah that. Jealousy does not look good on him.”

Missandei leaned her head against her saddle with a groan. “Do you not think I’ve tried that? He won’t listen.”

Merry patted her sympathetically on the shoulder. “Poor dear.”

A yell brought the marching soldiers to a halt, and the women quickly mounted their horses and rode to the front of the army to see what the problem was. 

Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah were standing, staring at the body of a young girl attached to a cross, pointing along the road. The women halted their horses behind the two knights, and Daenerys dismounted and slowly approached the body. 

“There’s one on every mile marker between here and Meereen,” explained Ser Jorah.

“How many miles are there between here and Meereen?” asked Daenerys.

“One hundred and sixty-three, your Grace.”

“I’ll tell our men to ride ahead and bury them,” offered Ser Barristan. “You and the ladies don’t need to see this.”

“You will do no such thing,” said Daenerys. “I will see each and every one of their faces. Remove her collar and preserve her as well as you can, then bring her with us. I shall make the Wise Masters pay for what they have done, and for that I want them to see the pain they have caused.”

* * *

They topped the ridge and saw the snowy plain unfold before them, The Wall standing firm in the distance. The Wall was just as big and imposing as Tyrion remembered it. Smoke from Castle Black was visible at this distance, though to Tyrion it seemed like there was more smoke than the last time he’d been on this ridge.

He remembered how the last time he’d passed this way, Benjen Stark had said words of welcome to his nephew. There was no one to welcome Tyrion Hill, however. He sighed, and kicked Rook forward. It was time for him to join the Night’s Watch.

Except when they got closer to Castle Black they saw evidence of fierce fighting on the castle walls. While some of the guards on the gate were wearing the black of the Night’s Watch, some of the others were wearing a sigil of a crowned deer in a burning heart, and Tyrion began to get a very bad feeling about this. _What is Stannis Baratheon doing here?_ he asked himself.

Brienne asked that very question aloud not a minute later, and all Tyrion could do was shrug. 

Castle Black seemed emptier, and yet fuller, than the last time Tyrion had been here. There was the remains of a large pyre in the middle of the courtyard, and there were more Baratheon men than members of the Night’s Watch. A large group were gathered on the far side of the pyre, and Tyrion could hear the sounds of a fight — the clanging of metal upon metal, and the cries of men fighting. From the way the others in the courtyard weren’t reacting, Tyrion supposed it was a training exercise.

No one had hailed them, so Tyrion looked at Brienne and shrugged again. The tall woman looked like she was about to vibrate out of her skin with annoyance, and Tyrion chose to remain mounted in case they had to make a fast retreat. If given the choice between living out his days on the frozen Wall, or accompanying the Maid of Tarth as she wandered her way around Westeros, Tyrion rather thought he’d stay with Brienne. She, at least, could be persuaded to return to warmer climes eventually.

Probably.

They rounded the remains of the pyre to see two Night’s Watchmen involved in a training exercise — one with shoulder-length dark hair, and the other looking not much older than a child. Tyrion wasn’t aware they took sworn brothers that young. 

The child attacked in a flurry of blows, but the man was faster, brushing away his attacks and stepping in to level his training sword at the child’s neck. 

“Get your shield up,” said the man, and Tyrion realised with a shock that it was Jon Snow. 

“It’s too heavy!” complained the child, retreating.

Jon Snow kept his sword at the child’s neck. “If it wasn’t heavy, it wouldn’t stop a sword. Now get it up.”

A series of fast blows from Jon Snow saw the child trip and fall to the ground, and finally the man stopped his attack and helped the boy up. 

Tyrion couldn’t hear what he said to the boy, but the affection with which Jon wrapped his hand around the back of the boy’s head was obvious.

“What are you doing here?” growled a voice from behind them, and Tyrion and Brienne turned their horses. There was a grizzled man standing beside them, vaguely familiar to Tyrion, with Janos Slynt at his shoulder.

Brienne looked the man up and down, and responded, her clear voice ringing across the courtyard. “I am Brienne of Tarth, here to deliver Tyrion Hill to the Night’s Watch.”

Tyrion felt the shackles of fate snap closed around him, and he did not like the the glint in Slynt’s eyes at this news.

“Tyrion _Hill_ , is it?” Slynt murmured gleefully.

“I’m Ser Alliser Thorne, Acting Commander of the Night’s Watch. I relieve you of your prisoner,” said Thorne gravely. 

Tyrion wondered what had happened to the old Commander. He’d rather liked the man.

Brienne nodded and seemed about to speak when a sudden silence fell over the courtyard. Thorne and Slynt visibly tensed, looking behind Brienne and Tyrion, who turned in their saddles to see a beautiful woman in red crossing the courtyard, a large ruby glistening at the base of her throat.

She stopped behind Jon Snow, who turned to see her.

“The King wants a word,” she said, her lilting accent sending desire through Tyrion’s veins, followed closely by terror. This woman was dangerous, very dangerous. As the woman turned, the light playing off her hair reminded Tyrion strongly of the red hair of his own bride, and he felt his heart tug. Wherever Sansa was, he hoped she was well. 

Thorne let out a pained grunt as Jon Snow followed the foreign woman, and gestured abruptly. “Tarly!”

A fat boy, who had been talking to a girl, looked up and trotted over to Thorne. “Ser?”

“This here is Tyrion _Hill_. New recruit. Get him settled.”

With that, Thorn stormed off followed by Slynt, and Tyrion was left in the middle of the courtyard on his horse, looking down at the friendly face smiling up at him.

* * *

It was a long ride. The Queen stopped to supervise the lowering of every dead slave child from the markers along the road, saying a short prayer over each of them. Sansa and Merry had helped to remove some of the children themselves, earning praise from the Dragon Queen for being unafraid to get their hands dirty. It was part of Sansa’s plan to make the Queen like and rely on her — if she wanted to advise the Queen, the Queen had to listen to her. If the Queen liked her, she would be more willing to listen.

Sansa was pleased to find that she _liked_ Daenerys Targaryen. After some of the stories she’d heard, and from seeing the ruin of Yunkai, Sansa was worried that the Dragon Queen would be as mad as some of her ancestors, but Daenerys was _nice_ ; Driven and determined to end slavery in Slaver’s Bay and take the throne of the Seven Kingdoms, but nice. She was slow to smile, but she did smile on occasion. She was charmed by Sansa and Merry’s singing, and Sansa and Daenerys had shared several eye-rolls over how adorable Merry and Ferregi were as a couple.

As exotic as Daenerys’ upbringing had been, they were both daughters of Great Houses after all. As sweet as Merry was, she was the daughter of a minor lord, and a new bride, and Sansa had found herself missing Margaery more than she’d ever thought she would. There was kinship in being from a Great House, and even if Daenerys lacked the same education that Sansa and Margaery had received, well, the intelligence and spirit were there. During the course of the ride from Yunkai, Sansa and Daenerys had spent many days and nights talking, and were on their way to becoming fast friends.

Sansa rather thought that Daenerys enjoyed having someone of a similar age to confide in. Certainly the Queen enjoyed keeping her close.

One night Sansa and Daenerys had stayed up late talking over spiced wine. Daenerys had been curious about life at court in King’s Landing, and how Sansa, as an outsider to court, had found the politics of King’s Landing. Sansa, in return, had been curious about Daenerys’ life growing up in Essos and how Daenerys saw life in Westeros.

Daenerys had asked Sansa how she saw the political situation in Westeros, and who she could use as allies. As Sansa had run through the list of Great Houses and where she thought they stood, she’d seen Daenerys’ eyes grow distant.

“Lannister, Targaryen, Baratheon, Stark, Tyrell...you’re all just spokes on a wheel. This one’s on top, then that one’s on top, and on and on it spins, crushing those on the ground. I don’t want to rise to the top of the wheel, and I don’t want to stop it either. I’m going to break the wheel.”

“Your Grace, wheels exist because they are useful. They work. If you break the wheel, you will have to replace it with something. What will you replace it with?”

The Queen had fallen silent, staring into the brazier in the middle of her tent. 

“The people don’t drink secret toasts to Targaryen health, do they?”

“Pardon, your Grace?”

“It was something someone once said to my brother. That the common people of Westeros drink secret toasts to their health, that they cry out for their true King. That the smallfolk sew banners of my sigil and pray for the return of the Targaryens.”

Sansa stared at Daenerys. “Your Grace…”

Daenerys smiled sadly. “That’s not the truth, is it? Tell me the truth, Lady Sansa. Not what you think I want to hear, but the truth.”

 _There will come a time,_ Varys had told her, _That a good ruler will want to be told the truth. It is one of the marks of a good ruler. And one of the marks of a good spymaster is to know when to tell the truth, and when to obfuscate._

Sansa looked the Dragon Queen in the eye and decided now was the time to tell the truth. “No, your Grace, I don’t believe they do. The common people just want to survive. They pray for short winters and strong sons. For rulers that leave them alone, but are fair when dealing with the smallfolk. They want good weather and plentiful crops. The Game of Thrones does not interest the smallfolk, nor the common people, nor the merchants. They just want to be able to make their way through the world as safely as they can.”

Daenerys nodded. “Yes, I’ve been told much the same by others. Thank you for telling me the truth.”

“If I may, your Grace…” said Sansa softly. Daenerys gestured, and Sansa continued. “The Seven Kingdoms have been at war for years. Dorne is the only major kingdom not to suffer heavy losses. The fields have either been ruined by battles, or conscription and constant fighting has meant that there is no one to work the fields that remain. The capital was starving before the Reach came to our aid, and conditions are not much better elsewhere. Margaery Tyrell and I would visit the common people in King’s Landing, and bring them what food and charity as we could. It wasn’t much, and I worry about how they will survive the winter. Storing and preparing food for winter was a common task at Winterfell — even my sister would get roped into helping to make preserves and you normally couldn’t get Arya to do anything resembling housework under threat of torture. Or more embroidery practice.”

Daenerys smiled at that. Sansa had told Daenerys several stories about her stubborn sister, and the Queen had expressed a wish to meet the girl one day.

“We took winter seriously in the North, and it worries me how unseriously it is taken in the South. It would not surprise me if none of the Southern houses have enough stores for winter, when it arrives, nor could they afford to feed and shelter the common folk through another war, particularly not a war waged with dragons. You talk of breaking the wheel, and of creating another way to rule. My advice, your Grace, would be to work out how to feed the smallfolk, and how to prepare for winter, alongside planning for a military victory. Feed them, give them space and peace, and the smallfolk will gladly say prayers in your name. But not before then.”

Daenerys had looked thoughtful, then changed the subject.

But now the ride was over, and they were in front of the gates of Meereen. The Unsullied formed up into their ranks, and the war machines hauled into place. The Second Sons arrayed themselves to one side of the plain before the city gates, while the Dothraki fanned out around the backs of the Unsullied to fill to block any attacks from the rear.

Sansa had never been in any full battle before — only skirmishes — but from what she could see, and what she could remember from conversations overheard between her father and brothers, as well as the books on military strategy Varys had given her to read as part of her training, the arrangement looked well to her.

The Queen picked her way to the front of her mass of warriors and dismounted. Her advisors, including Sansa, Merry, the Braavosi, Kisi and Khal Onobo, joined her. 

For several long moments, Sansa and the others looked up at the parapet of the city, where the Meereenese stood, staring back at them.

Then with a clang, the gates of the city opened.

“Are they attacking?” asked Daenerys, but no sooner were the words out of her mouth than they saw that it was only one rider coming towards them, all bright colours and flash. The rider turned so he was riding parallel to both Daenerys’ army and the watchers on the city walls, and the watching Meereenese burst into yells and applause. 

They shifted to watch as the man brought his horse to an overly-dramatic halt and dismounted.

“What is he doing?” asked the Queen, but once again, the question didn’t need answering. Even from this distance it was clear that the man had pulled open his trousers and was urinating on the sand in their direction. 

The Queen rolled her eyes at the juvenile display, and Merry giggled.

The urinating man began to yell, and Missandei stepped forward to translate. “He says that we are an army of men without man parts. He claims you are no woman at all, but a man who -” she paused and gulped before continuing “has his cock in his own asshole.”

“Ignore him, your Grace,” advised Ser Barristan. “These are meaningless words.”

“They’re not meaningless if half the city you intend to take is listening to them,” remarked Ser Jorah. 

“I have something to say to the people of Meereen,” said Daenerys as she turned to face the city once again. “But first, I will need this one to be quiet. Do I have a champion?”

Sansa watched as the men scrambled forward to offer themselves as the Queen’s champion.

Grey Worm, the Commander of the Unsullied, was the first to offer, but the Queen turned him down. Then Ser Barristan pointed out that he had killed more men in single combat than any other man alive — which is why the Queen needed him to remain alive to serve as her advisor. Ser Jorah was also turned aside, as was Daario Naharis, judged too important due to his role as the Commander of the Second Sons. 

The Queen looked at Sansa, and Sansa nodded. She would stand.

“If I am to break the wheel, as I _will_ break the wheel, I will need something to replace it with. Lady Sansa, you wear a sword. Can you also wield it?”

“I can, your Grace.”

“Then come forward as my champion, Virzeth Veri. Show them what the women of Westeros do to mewling men-children who don’t know when to shut up.”


	7. I Will Rule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She knew she only had one shot. She had to make it count.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S04E04 ‘Oathbreaker’, S04E05 ‘First of His Name’ and S05E01 ‘The Wars To Come’.

Sansa stepped out from the group of advisors surrounding the Queen onto the plain beneath the city. Her hair was braided and coiled at the back of her head, how she found it most comfortable when riding, and with each step the bells in her braids jingled. She took a deep breath, then another. 

She knew she only had one shot. She had to make it count.

But it was okay. She was clever. She was brave. She could do this.

The Meereenese champion caused his horse to rear once again, and charged towards her, lance held alongside his mount.

 _Idiot,_ Sansa thought. _The lance goes across the horse’s withers so you don’t smack the poor beast in the head._ She’d watched enough tourneys in King’s Landing to learn that much about jousting. 

She began to think that maybe this champion wasn’t all that good — or perhaps he was the best Meereen had to offer, and it was a sign that Meereen had very little military might other than it’s strong walls.

It was a beautiful horse. Sansa hated to kill it.

Just as the horse reached her range, Sansa pulled her bow, notched an arrow, and took one more deep breath. She fired a single shot, which struck the horse clean in the chest, felling it at once, before quickly but smoothly hooking her bow over her shoulder, leaving her arms free.

As the horse dropped to the ground the rider was thrown clear, sliding along the ground and landing at Sansa’s feet, his garish helmet spinning away to the side. Sansa drew her sword and stabbed down with all her weight behind the sword, pining the man to the ground with her sword through his neck.

When the dust cleared and the victory was plain for all to see, the watching Dothraki let out whoops of joy that the Braavosi joined in.

Someone on the walls must have signalled, because suddenly a hail of arrows came towards their little party — but they fell short, striking the dead body of the Meereenese champion and missing Sansa completely.

Once they had stopped firing, Sansa stepped forward, placed her foot on the champion’s chest, braced herself, and pulled her sword free. 

She wiped it clean on the dead man’s trousers before sliding it back into its sheath and walking back, past Daenerys. The Queen graced her with a smile and a nod, and Sansa smiled back before continuing to make her way to the back of the army. 

She disappeared into the rocks that ringed the plain before the city and, checking that no one could see her, doubled over and threw up.

 _By the Seven,_ she thought, _I never want to have to do that again._

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and spat the last traces of sick from her mouth. She wished she’d thought to bring a flask of water with her. 

Sansa kicked the dust over the vomit and stepped a few paces away, sliding down and sitting on the ground, waiting for her heart to stop hammering so hard. When she’d been standing down the Meereenese champion’s charge, she’d felt strong, brave, and powerful. It had almost like she’d been watching herself from afar, and had known what to do to make herself, and by relation, her Queen, as strong and as powerful as possible.

But now it was over, she kept hearing in her mind the sound of her sword sucking loose from the man’s throat, the sound of his horse hitting the ground, and the whisper of the Meereenese arrows flying towards her.

Single combat, even a single combat in which she was able to trounce her enemy so readily, was much, much different from battle, Sansa realised. She didn’t know how men did this so readily all the time.

A soft footfall caught her attention, and Sansa quickly wiped her tears away and stood, slipping into the role of Virzeth Veri once again — the ferocious she-wolf, unafraid and with blood between her teeth. But then Merry emerged from behind the rocks, and the look of concern on her friend’s face made Sansa crumple back into tears.

Merry hurried towards Sansa, and grabbed her friend tightly. Together, the two women sunk to the ground, Sansa sobbing as she felt the rush of the battle leaving her body. Merry rocked her friend gently, letting her cry herself out, before offering a cleanish handkerchief and a flask of water.

As Sansa mopped her face and washed out her mouth, Merry carefully slipped another bell into Sansa’s hair.

“Merry…”

“Ssh, Lady Sansa. They musn’t see you were upset. Virzeth Veri had a great victory, and she must display that as she rides through the gates to Meereen. None of us can show weakness here, you know that. This isn’t Braavos, where we are just pretty noblewomen. We are members of the Queen’s retinue, and we represent Westeros. We must be strong and brave and never let them see us cry.”

Sansa choked back her last few tears and nodded, hearing the note of the new bell jangle in her hair. “You are right, Merry. Virzeth Veri and Mihe Ziri cannot show weakness. When did you get so clever?”

“Oh, spending months in the company of the cleverest woman I know has helped with that,” smiled Merry, giving her friend a nudge then standing and helping Sansa up. “Ready to face the army again?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Sansa looked down at the soiled handkerchief clutched in her hand. “I hope we take Meereen quickly. It will be nice to have access to proper baths and laundries again.”

Merry snorted, and helped dust her off. “I can’t believe you, Lady Sansa. You stare down a charging warrior, kill him easily, cry over his death, then worry about laundry!”

“What?” laughed Sansa as they walked back to the army. “I know what’s important in life! And right now, being able to get clean and then wear clean clothes is pretty much all I want. That, and a good night’s sleep in an actual bed.”

They rejoined the Queen’s party, still laughing, as Daenerys gave the signal for the barrels of slave collars to be launched at the city. Daenerys gave them a questioning look, but Sansa and Merry just smiled at the Queen before mounting their horses. Sansa noted the approving looks on many of the faces around her. _Of course the Dothraki would appreciate a woman being able to kill a man and then laugh as she remounts her horse. But I didn’t expect such bloodthirstiness from the Unsullied. Or the Knights._

As they rode back to the camp where they would wait for the city to fall, Sansa wondered if Daenerys had ever cried like that, over awful but necessary action. Whether Daenerys also wore the Dragon Queen as a mask, or if it was her natural self. If Daenerys had a friend who she could cry in front of, or if the other woman was really as lonely and aloof as she seemed.

* * *

Tarly — Sam — had been the very definition of welcoming, keeping up a stream of friendly chatter as he showed Tyrion where he could stable Rook and showed him to a cell to sleep in.

Well. Sam had called it a room, but Tyrion had been in enough cells to know that this was definitely a cell. It was small consolation to learn that Sam’s own room was just down the hall, and that this corridor was full of “the good ones”.

Apparently a collection of convicted criminals who were banished to the far ends of Westeros to guard against snarks and grumpkins contained some not nice men. Tyrion tried to hide his astonishment but didn’t quite succeed, if the look Sam gave him was any indication.

The boy may have been rotund, but Tyrion got the distinct impression that anyone who thought fat and slow meant stupid was in for a surprise. 

“What news do you get from the capital?” he’d asked the boy as Sam helped him choose things from the clothing stores and armoury. As almost everything would have to be taken in, Tyrion was able to stay in his Lannister clothes for a while longer. He was grateful that Jaime had had the foresight to send him north with a correctly sized black cloak — it was fucking freezing up here.

Sam had taken Tyrion to the woman the boy had been talking to in the courtyard when Tyrion had arrived, and had asked her to adjust the clothing they’d selected for Tyrion. The boy had blushed and squirmed like an excited puppy at getting to speak to the woman, and Tyrion had been highly amused. 

“Not much, I’m afraid,” said Sam as he led him to the contraption that would take them to the top of the wall. “We got the announcement of the King’s wedding to Lady Margaery, and the news of the King’s death. I help Maester Aemon with the ravens, and there’s been none from King’s Landing since the death of King Joffrey. We weren’t even told to expect you!”

Sam gave the signal, and slowly the cage rose into the sky.

“Did you hear anything about Lord Stark?”

“We heard of his death, yes. Jon took it hard.”

“Did you hear anything else around the time of Lord Stark’s death?”

“No, nothing. That was the last news Jon had of his family. He’ll be keen to talk to you, I’m sure. Being from the capital I’m sure you’ve seen his sisters recently. I think Jon assumes that they’ve both made good marriages, though he wonders why they never write.”

As the cage came to the top of The Wall and disgorged them to see Jon Snow standing with the red woman and Stannis Baratheon, Tyrion realised he wasn’t sure who he was less reluctant to face.

* * *

The Queen and her advisors looked at the gathered people below. The freed slaves were in the back, chanting their support for the Queen, while the nobles gathered at the front looked desperately uncomfortable. 

“Tell me, Ser Jorah: how many children did the Great Masters nail to mile posts?”

“One hundred and sixty-three, khaleesi.”

“Yes, that was it,” the Queen murmured, then nodded at Grey Worm. He gave the signal, and the Unsullied began to herd the Great Masters to the courtyard below.

“Your Grace, a word?” asked Ser Barristan, Sansa standing at his shoulder. “The city is yours. All of these people are your subjects now. Sometimes it is better to answer injustice with mercy.”

“It is your choice, your Grace,” added Sansa. “You can continue the cycle of pain, or you can create something new.”

“I will answer injustice with _justice_ ,” said the Queen, turning away from her advisors. 

Ser Barristan and Sansa shared a hopeless look, before following their Queen.

They watched as the Unsullied stripped the clothes from the backs of 163 Great Masters, and tied the Great Masters to makeshift whipping poles. 

Daenerys stopped at the first Great Master. “Your name?”

“Please, Queen Daenerys…”

“Your name?”

“Qiklak zo Mardo, your Grace…”

“How many slaves do you own, Qiklak zo Mardo?”

“Two hundred, your Grace.”

The Queen looked at the watching slaves, who nodded. Two hundred was the number of slaves that Qiklak zo Mardo owned.

 _We need informants,_ realised Sansa. _We know nothing about this city, nor it’s people._ As she watched the horror unfold in front of her, Sansa turned her mind to planning how best to collect informants in this city. She would have to be both Varys and herself this time around — collect information from slaves and merchants, commoners and Great Masters. She made a mental note to talk to Missandei — the interpreter was not only one of the Queen’s most trusted advisors, but had also been to Meereen previously. Maybe she would know of people Sansa could recruit.

“Then you shall have two hundred lashes.” The Queen stepped back and nodded as Great Ox, a huge slave freed from Yunkai, stepped forward, the lash flexing in his great heavy paws.

The Queen stood by, impassive, as Great Ox covered Qiklak zo Mardo’s back with two hundred lashes.

Once he was finished, she moved to the next Great Master. “Your name?”

“Indez na Hoquuz, Queen Daenerys. I own fifty slaves.”

“Lies!” “Cheat!” immediately the cries came from the surrounding audience, and the dragons sitting atop a nearby pyramid shrieked along with them.

The Queen held up her hand and the crowd quieted. “How many slaves do you own?”

“One hundred and eighty,” whispered Indez na Hoquuz, defeated.

The crowd murmured that this was correct, and the Queen’s smile was frightening. “Then you shall have three-hundred and sixty lashes. One per slave, and the rest for lying to me.”

There were no more liars among the Great Masters that afternoon.

* * *

Tyrion couldn’t work it out. The Night’s Watch was meant to be neutral, but it looked a lot like Stannis Baratheon was in charge here. Tyrion was doing his best to stay out of the man’s way — and to avoid what was sure to be an awkward conversation with Jon Snow. 

Fortunately, it seemed the gods were smiling upon him, as they both seemed to be more interested in each other than talking to him. Ser Alliser, acting Commander and Master of Arms, seemed utterly uninterested in training him, so Brienne had continued to train him alongside Pod and some of the younger recruits. She wasn’t the most patient teacher, but Tyrion figured it was good for Pod to have people approximately the same size to train with. Tyrion mostly tried to stay out of the way, and fortunately Maester Aemon seemed to have a soft spot for him.

Tyrion wasn’t sure _why_ Brienne was still at Castle Black. He’d thought that as soon as he was no longer her burden, she’d be haring off for Winterfell to offer her services to Sansa, but for some reason Brienne was staying put.

He wondered if she wanted to speak with Jon Snow, and was just trying to catch him when the young man wasn’t distracted.

There was something happening here, Tyrion could feel it. It was like the entire castle was holding its breath. There were wildings and Stannis’ soldiers and Members of the Watch all existing in an uneasy truce, and no one would explain to Tyrion what was going on. So he hid from as much combat training as he could, and he watched and observed, willing himself to see what was happening around him. He was so used to the political currents in the Red Keep that it was taking him a frustratingly long time to grasp the political currents here.

It was curiosity that brought him to the courtyard that night, lurking in a shadowed spot where he could see but not be seen. It wasn’t his usual way of behaving — he was used to taking center stage and demanding people acknowledge him — but he wasn’t Tyrion Lannister anymore. He didn’t have his family’s name or money behind him now. He was just Tyrion Hill, and he was on his own. The glint in Slynt’s eye reminded him of this every time he saw the man, so he made sure that Slynt saw as little of Tyrion as possible.

Which is why Tyrion was hiding in the shadows, watching as a wildling man was brought before Stannis, the red woman, and a man who appeared to be the King’s closest advisor. The courtyard was full of wildlings and Stannis’ soldiers; the Night’s Watch was standing on the walkways. _Above and watching, but not a part of this,_ noted Tyrion.

“Mance Rayder, you’ve been called the King Beyond The Wall. Westeros only has one king.”

 _Yes, and according to most of Westeros, that isn’t you,_ thought Tyrion, watching as Brienne glared at Stannis from the walkway opposite, loathing clear on the Maid’s face. _Hmm. Perhaps it is not Jon she is waiting for._

“Bend the knee and I promise you mercy. Kneel and live.”

The wildling man tilted his head up to remind the watchers that he was taller than Stannis. “This was my home,” he remarked, looking around. “For many years. I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.”

“You will not kneel?”

“I will not kneel.”

“Then I sentence you to death,” Stannis said in an emotionless voice. Baratheon soldiers grabbed the wildling by his shoulders and forced him up the steps of the pyre, tying him to the stake.

“We all must choose,” said the red woman, her voice ringing out clearly across the courtyard as she raised the burning torch high. “Man or woman, young or old, lord or peasant. Our choices are the same: we choose light, or we choose darkness. We choose good, or we choose evil. We choose the true god, or the false. Free folk! There is only one true king! And his name is Stannis! Here stands your king of lies. Behold the fate of those who choose the darkness!”

She turned and touched the torch to the pyre; the dry wood caught almost immediately. At first, the wildling remained impassive but, as the flames crept higher, he began to panic. He began to cry out as his clothing caught fire, the smell of roasting meat and singed cloth filling the yard. 

Tyrion noticed Jon Snow’s expression of disgust as the young man turned and walked away. Several of the other members of the Night Watch also showed disgust, though some looked excited. Tyrion took careful note of each face. Stannis’ men watched the pyre with hunger in their faces, while the watching wildlings looked horrified. 

Just as the man’s cries became overwhelming, an arrow pierced his heart, killing him instantly. The crowd shifted their gaze to see where it had come from, and Tyrion looked with them: it was Jon Snow who had delivered a swift death to the condemned man.

* * *

Several days later, Daenerys’ forces had secured the city without question. Sansa had spoken to the Queen and gotten her permission to start establishing a network of little birds throughout the city — using Ferregi and Merry to help establish links amongst the Great Masters; Missandei and Grey Worm to help amongst the slaves. The children Sansa was collecting on her own. Slowly information was trickling into the rooms Sansa had claimed as her own in the Great Pyramid. She was gradually piecing together a picture of the city and her people, though it was hard to do with the city constantly in flux. The Queen and her advisors were holding daily councils to try and keep on top of the changing situation.

“We’ve taken the Meereenese navy, your Grace,” announced Ser Barristan at one such meeting.

“The _Second Sons_ took the Meereenese navy,” corrected Daario, and Sansa rolled her eyes at the young man’s posturing.

“Who told you to take the navy?” asked the Queen, also seemingly unimpressed with the posturing. 

“No one,” said Daario as he took his seat. “But I heard you like ships.” He grinned rakishly.

“How many ships?” asked the Queen, curiosity clear in her voice.

“Ninety-three, your Grace,” said Ser Barristan.

“How many men can they carry?”

“Ninety-three hundred, counting sailors.”

The Queen turned to Ser Jorah. “Would that be enough to take King’s Landing?”

“The Lannisters have more,” he responded. 

“But they’ve been fighting Joffrey’s wars for years,” remarked Ser Barristan. “They’re tired; dispersed. And their King is dead.”

“But Lord Tywin is not. And he is the real danger,” interjected Sansa. “He’s the one who holds the Lannister army together, and keeps the peace in King’s Landing. He controls King Tommen. And it is not just the Lannister army you need to worry about — there are also the Tyrells, who provide not just men but also food.”

“What is the strength of the capital’s fighting force?” asked Ser Jorah.

“Tywin brought twenty thousand with him when he marched to the capital from Harrenhal, but most of them have since returned to the Westerlands. Last I heard, there were five thousand Lannister soldiers remaining in the city, with the same number coming from the Reach as Margaery’s escort. Most of them would have remained following Joffrey’s wedding — Olenna Tyrell would not have left her beloved granddaughter without significant protection. The Gold Cloaks had a strength of around twelve hundred, plus reserves. So I would estimate around eleven thousand in King’s Landing, perhaps twelve thousand at the most. But I left King’s Landing some time ago, your Grace. The situation may well have changed.”

“We have eight thousand Unsullied, and two thousand Second Sons. We could sail into Blackwater Bay and storm the gates without warning with those numbers,” said Ser Barristan.

“It could be enough,” said Ser Jorah. “But we are not fighting to make you Queen of King’s Landing. Ten thousand men cannot conquer Westeros.”

“Many houses will flock to our banner once the Queen crosses the Narrow Sea.”

“Many houses will flock to whatever side they think will win, as they always have,” said Ser Jorah sharply, cutting off Ser Barristan.

“King’s Landing may not be as easy to take as you think it will be,” remarked Sansa. “Ser Barristan, you had left King’s Landing before the Battle of Blackwater took place.”

The old knight started to protest but Sansa held up her hand in a placating gesture. “I mean no disrespect, ser. I know that was not your fault. But it means that you were not there when Stannis attempted to do just what you’ve described — sail into Blackwater Bay and storm the gates. My husband led the defence of the city, and I can tell you that it cost Stannis far more than it cost us.”

“How so?” asked the Queen.

“My husband used Wildfire and blew up Stannis’ navy, sending many of his forty-thousand men to the bottom of the Bay before they could even make landfall. A chain at the mouth of the river kept ships from fleeing in that direction, and our navy was hidden at the mouth of the Blackwater to serve as a blockade there. Our men stood on the parapets of the city and were able to pick off the Baratheon forces one by one as they made landfall. At that was with only ten thousand men in the city. There are more now, and they are battle-hardened veterans under the command of Tywin Lannister, not the untried men my husband had to deal with. I would suggest that sailing into Blackwater Bay is not the way to win King’s Landing, let alone the rest of Westeros.”

There was silence, and Sansa withdrew a piece of paper from her sleeve. “There’s other news, your Grace, from Yunkai. Without the Unsullied to enforce your rule, the Wise Masters have retaken control of the city. Our informants write that they have re-enslaved every man who stayed behind and have sworn to take revenge against you. Apparently burning effigies of you is a favoured activity there now.”

“The situation is not much better in Astapor,” said Ser Jorah. “The Council you installed to rule over the city has been overthrown by a butcher named Cleon, who has declared himself His Imperial Majesty.”

The Queen was silent for a long moment, then she spoke softly as she looked over the city. “Please leave me.”

As they started to withdraw, the Queen held up her hand. “Not you, Ser Jorah. Or you, Lady Sansa.”

Once they were alone, the Queen turned from the window, pain evident on her face. “It appears my liberation of Slaver’s Bay isn’t going quite as planned.” 

“Your Grace...it doesn’t matter. You aren’t wanting to be Queen of Slaver’s Bay, you’re wanting to be Queen of Westeros. You can sail for Westeros on the Meereenese ships today if you want to,” said the old knight.

The Queen pursed her lips. “You counselled me against rashness once in Qarth. I didn’t listen, and I should have. I feel I should not hurry forward into another battle I don’t fully understand, not again.” She paused, and her shoulders slumped. “How can I rule seven kingdoms if I can’t even rule three cities? Why should anyone trust me? Why should anyone follow me?”

“Because, your Grace, you are the best hope Westeros has. You are a Targaryen, and the Mother of Dragons,” said Ser Jorah.

“And it is those dragons that will give you an advantage,” said Sansa. “Tywin has years of experience leading men in the field, yes, but he has no experience in leading them against dragons.”

“My dragons are too small for battle yet.”

“Then don’t enter battle yet,” said Sansa. “Stay here longer. Consolidate the freedom of Slaver’s Bay and give your dragons time to grow. Gather more men and ships, and learn to rule here in Slaver’s Bay. You want to break the wheel, and replace it with something new? It will be easier to do that in three cities than in seven kingdoms.”

The Queen looked at Sansa. “Lady Sansa, do you think I can rule the Seven Kingdoms?”

“Honestly, your Grace? No. Not yet. You are an excellent conqueror, but ruling is not conquering. You are good at throwing existing power structures into chaos, but…”

“But I need to be more than that,” finished the Queen.

Beside Sansa, Ser Jorah nodded. 

“I will not let those I have freed slide back into chains. I will not sail for Westeros, not yet. I will stay here long, and I shall do what queens do: I will rule.”


	8. Through Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion realised that the beast was taller than he was at the withers, and he’d guess it was at least four or five times his own weight. ‘This is it,’ he thought. ‘This is the moment I die.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S05E02 ‘The House of Black and White’, S05E03 ‘High Sparrow’, S07E03 ‘The Queen’s Justice’, and S07E04 ‘The Spoils of War’. 
> 
> I was frustrated with how long the Meereen storyline took in the show, so I’m going to start to smush together some events and storylines so we can get on with things! So if things are happening out of order, please bear with me :-)

“It’s the first thing I ever remember wanting,” muttered Jon Snow to Tarly. “A daydream that my father would ask the King, and just like that, I would never be the bastard of Winterfell again.”

Hidden in the shadows cast by the many black-clad bodies in the room, his hand clutched around a mug of terrible wine, Tyrion felt his heart clench for the boy. At least Snow’s childhood daydreams had a chance of coming true — Tyrion doubted he would be able to visit the rest of the Wonders Made by Man, seeing as how he was doomed to live out his days upon only one of them.

Nor had he managed to find a wife who loved him, but for a while, it seemed like he might be able to achieve that one. He still hadn’t talked to Snow about his sister. It was a conversation he was not looking forward to having, and he’d gotten quite good at dodging the brooding young man.

“You deserve this,” said Tarly loyally. “You truly do. I couldn’t be happier for you.”

_Someone needs to teach that boy to lie,_ thought Tyrion. _Snow is his closest friend. He’ll be heartbroken if Snow leaves him. I wonder what Snow would do if Tarly deserted to accompany him? Probably execute him for deserting his post. Places too high a price on duty, that one._

Tyrion was proved right when Snow shook his head. “I’m going to refuse it. I swore a vow to the Night’s Watch. If I don’t take my own word seriously, what sort of Lord of Winterfell would I be?”

Snow took his seat as Thorne pushed his way into the room and jibed at how many men were present, and Tyrion rolled his eyes.

The ancient Maester stood and began the proceedings for the election of the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Slynt stood and spoke in favour of Thorne; a man from the Shadow Tower spoke in favour of his commander, Ser Denys Mallister. 

There was silence after this, then Samwell Tarly stepped forward and, after a few pointed jabs at Janos Slynt, made an impassioned speech in support of Jon Snow. It was so good that even Thorne had to admit the truth of it, though he immediately cast aspersions on Jon Snow’s character. 

The pot for the counters was circulated though as he had not been sworn in, Tyrion was not able to vote. When the pot was smashed and the counters collected, it was a draw between Snow and Thorne with Mallister trailing far behind.

Maester Aemon stood, and with trembling hands, cast his vote.

Jon Snow was the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Tyrion was fairly sure he’d no longer be able to escape having a conversation with his wife’s heavily armed elder brother.

* * *

“I heard it was best to keep your enemies close.” Jon Snow’s voice echoed down the corridor as Tyrion reluctantly made his way to the Lord Commander’s office several days later. He’d run out of excuses to avoid the Lord Commander’s summons, even to himself. Brienne had left Castle Black soon after the election, heading to Winterfell to offer her sword to Sansa. Tyrion had thought of sending a message to Sansa with her, but words had failed him in the end. 

“Whoever said that didn’t have many enemies,” responded Stannis as he left the room and saw Tyrion walking towards him. The remaining Baratheon made a disgusted noise at the sight of him before turning and stalking away.

Before Tyrion reached the office, he heard Stannis’ Hand speak. “He sees something in you,” said Davos as he closed the door. Tyrion crept closer, pressing his ear against the door. _Something interesting might actually happen in this place, other than guarding against grumpkins and snarks,_ he thought. Tyrion was far more interested in gossip and intrigue than swords and fighting, after all.

“Might not be apparent from his tone,” continued Davos, “but it’s the truth. He believes in you.”

“I’m sorry I disappointed him.”

_So Snow turned down the offer to become a Stark. I wonder what will happen to the North now?_ From the little Pod has reported back from visiting taverns and inns on their way North, the Kingdom wasn’t faring too well under the Boltons. The roads were terrible, the farms largely sitting barren and ruined after the years of fighting and the lack of men to tend them. The people looked pale, wan and pinched, very different from the happy, if stubbornly prideful, people that Tyrion remembered seeing on his first ride North.

“The King is a...complicated man,” said Davos. “But he wants to do what is right for the Seven Kingdoms.”

“As long as he’s ruling them.”

“He’s the one true King. He has a blood right to that throne.”

Tyrion supposed that he rather did. After all, Tommen was just as much of an inbred bastard as Joffrey had been, for all he was a much sweeter boy.

“I’ve sworn to stay clear of the politics of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Have you now?” There was a pause then Davos’ voice shifted. “How does the Night’s Watch vow go again? You must have memorised it since you got here.”

“Night gathers and so my watch begins,” said the voice of a young boy. _Olly, Snow’s steward._

“No, not that bit. The bit at the end.”

“I am the sword in the darkness, the watcher on the walls, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life —”

“That’s enough,” interrupted Davos. “The shield that guards the realms of men. That’s what you swore to be. Now, I’m not a learned man, but I think the best way to help the most people might not be sitting in a frozen castle at the edge of the world. It might just be wading in, getting your boots dirty, and doing what needs to be done.”

“And what needs to be done?” Jon Snow sounded irritated.

“As long as the Bolton’s rule the North, the North will suffer. Just one man’s opinion.”

Tyrion pulled back as he heard footsteps coming towards the door, and as Davos left, he nodded in Tyrion’s direction.

Tyrion quite liked the older man. They hadn’t spoken much, but there was something about his manner than put Tyrion at ease. For all that Davos protested he wasn’t a learned man, he was a smart man. Tyrion understood that.

He guessed they’d fought on opposite sides of the Battle of Blackwater. He should see if he could have a drink with the Onion Knight one day. See what the other side thought about his defence of the city.

_King’s Landing may have forgotten the role I played in their defence, but perhaps not everyone has._

He barely had time for that thought to sink in before Olly was gesturing him inside Jon Snow’s office.

Tyrion stepped in, warily, watching. He heard the movement of Olly bowing and leaving the office, shutting the door behind him, but Tyrion was frozen stiff.

Jon Snow’s direwolf was much bigger than the last time Tyrion had been this close to him. While it wasn’t easy to put the beast out of your mind while it was roaming around the castle, it was harder to ignore the direwolf when it was in the same room as you. Tyrion gulped, looking at it’s red eyes and sharp teeth as the direwolf pulled its lips back in a snarl. It slowly stood, and Tyrion realised that the beast was taller than he was at the withers, and he’d guess it was at least four or five times his own weight.

“Ghost. Enough.” Jon Snow sounded amused, and after an eternity, the beast stopped staring and snarling and settled back down in the corner, keeping a watchful eye on the room.

Silence fell in the room, and Tyrion refused to drop his gaze from his wife’s brother. 

Who didn’t know that Tyrion had married Sansa.

_Shit._

“What news do you have of King’s Landing?” asked Jon Snow.

“Well, Joffrey is dead.”

“Yes, and you’ve been sent here for killing him.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Of course you didn’t. From what I remember of you, you wouldn’t be stupid enough to get caught if you had killed him. But enough about Joffrey. What of my sisters? I’ve had no word from either of them for years. Are they well? I know from the announcement of Joffrey’s death that he was married to somebody called Margaery, not Sansa. What of Sansa? Did she marry well?”

“Well, she was married, shortly before your father was…”

“Killed, yes, go on.”

“Your father’s death was my nephew’s wedding present to Sansa. I don’t think he liked the fact she married someone else. She was his play thing, as far as he was concerned. Her husband put a stop to that, though.”

“Her husband sounds impressive.”

“Oh, he had his moments.”

“Who is he? Was he?”

_This is it. This is the moment I die, eaten alive by a direwolf._

“Me.”

Jon Snow just stared at him, and Tyrion hurried to fill the silence. “It was a sham marriage. Unconsummated. I never touched her, I swear to you, I never touched her.” Tyrion had enough presence of mind to not mention how much he had really, really _wanted_ to touch her. “I was drunk, she was trying to be kind and help me back to my room, and someone saw us and took it the wrong way and we were married before we could even blink, but I never touched her.”

“You married Sansa.”

“Yes.”

“ _You_ married _Sansa_.”

“Yes? Several years ago now.”

“You married Sansa _several years ago_ yet you didn’t consummate the marriage?”

“I made a promise to her on our wedding night that I would not come to her bed until she asked me to. I even tried to make a joke of it — ‘and now my watch begins’.”

Jon Snow looked as if Tyrion had just smacked him around the head with a plank of wood, and Tyrion hurried to put his mind at rest.

“She was a kind young girl, whose innocence and caring heart doomed her to be my bride, though I will say I am nowhere near the monster Joffrey was.”

“You’re the Lannister Imp. Your reputation precedes you, even here on The Wall. Even at Winterfell we heard stories of you, and Lady Stark wasn’t exactly one to welcome gossip and licentious talk.”

“I _was_ the Lannister Imp. How I am just Tyrion Hill, bastard dwarf of the Westerlands.”

The Lord Commander gave Tyrion a sharp look. “My arse you aren’t. Once a Lannister, always a Lannister, no matter what they say.”

There was an uncomfortable pause as Snow seemed to work out that he’d just declared his sister a Lannister, but then the younger man shrugged.

“So. What can you tell me about my sister?”

“She’s grown into a beautiful woman — she has the looks of her mother, but there’s a lot of your father in her too. She’s still kind and caring, and she has very fixed ideas of justice and fairness. She’s much smarter than she lets on. She wrote me a book once. I have no idea what happened to it, but I valued it highly. She was popular at court, particularly with the Westerladies and the Reachwomen.”

“The Westerladies and the Reachwomen?”

“The Westerladies began to keep her company when she married me, and therefore married into the ruling house of the Westerlands. The Reachwomen came to Court with Margaery, and since Sansa and Margaery became such close friends...they all spent time together. Sewing, singing, dancing, the occasional hawking trip.”

“Was she...happy?”

Tyrion shrugged. “I liked to think she was. She certainly never lacked for anything — she had pretty gowns and fine wines, and I wrested some of the better Lannister jewellery away from Cersei. She had friends, and the freedom to go where she wanted within the Red Keep. But...things were hard. She was a prisoner in King’s Landing, although her cage was a gilded one. I tried to get her out a few times, but my father foiled every attempt I made. She was certainly furious when the news about the Greyjoy attack on Winterfell reached King’s Landing, and there were several days there where I thought she was going to die of grief after the news of your brother and mother reached us. It was hard on her, to realise she was the only living Stark left.”

Tyrion realised he’d just implied that Jon wasn’t a Stark, but the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch just smiled sadly. “Because I’m not a Stark. And we were never close.”

“She spoke sometimes about Arya and her mother, but not really about the rest of her family. I’m sorry.”

“And what of Arya? I presume she didn’t get trapped into marriage through kindness?”

Tyrion closed his eyes and prayed that his death would be quick.

“Lord Commander...”

“She’s dead, isn’t she.”

Tyrion sighed, and opened his eyes. He’d face his death like a man. “It is assumed so. No one has seen her for sure since your father’s household in the Keep was slaughtered. Your father was captured, Sansa imprisoned and betrothed to me, but Arya just disappeared. I checked the bodies of the household myself, personally. She was not among the dead. There was the occasional rumour that she’d been spotted, but none of them were ever true. She disappeared like mist in the sunlight, and has been assumed dead for years now.”

“Which is why Sansa thought she was the only living Stark left,” said Jon softly.

Tyrion nodded.

“I don’t believe it,” said Jon firmly. “You didn’t know Arya like I did. She’s a fighter. She’s always been a fighter. If there was anyone in my family who could escape a massacre, it would be Arya Underfoot.”

The surety in Jon’s face made Tyrion worry. The Lord Commander had seemed to be a levelheaded, if serious, young man, but if he was going to believe such a fantasy…

Then again, Sansa had never really believed Arya was dead either. Wasn’t that the cause of one of their biggest fights? That Sansa thought Arya was still alive, and Tyrion was hiding the truth from her?

Perhaps the siblings were right, and their younger sister would one day come striding into the courtyard of Castle Black, aside a direwolf, with a giant, a grumpkin and a snark as her companions. Given the faith that her siblings seem to have in her, Tyrion was starting to believe that maybe it just might happen.

“What of Sansa now? What’s happened to her, now you’ve been accused of regicide and banished to The Wall? Is she still in King’s Landing?”

“She disappeared when Joffrey started to choke; and I haven’t seen her since. But when we were riding North, Pod saw her at an inn. He reported that she was riding to Winterfell in the company of Petyr Baelish.”

“Petyr Baelish? What is she doing with him?” The Lord Commander’s confusion was clear.

“Well, he is her uncle by marriage.”

Jon muttered something about ‘Ygritte being right,’ before looking up at the ceiling.

“Did you see her?”

“No, Lord Commander. Brienne and I are too...noteworthy. We stayed hidden, and sent Pod into towns and inns for us.”

“Is he trustworthy?”

“He was my own squire for several years. He saved my life at the Battle of Blackwater, and knows Sansa well. I have trusted him with my life before, and would do so again in an instant. He’s certainly more trustworthy than the boy you have squireing for you.”

“Olly? He’s not my squire. He’s my steward.”

“He’s liable to stab you in the back at the first chance he gets. His family, his village were slaughtered by wildlings. He comes here, only to find you welcoming wildings? Making peace with them? There’s an anger in that boy, anger that is going to fester and rot unless it is lanced soon.”

Jon stared at him for long moments, tapping his fingers on the desk. Then he heaved a great sigh. “Last time you were here, you told me several things I didn’t know, but needed to know. I followed your advice, and it’s led me here, to a position higher than a bastard like me could ever hope to attain.” He stood and walked over to the door, opening it to let Tyrion out. “Thank you for the news of my sisters. I will write to Sansa at Winterfell, and if you think of anything else you think I should know, report to me immediately.”

“Lord Commander, if I may…”

“Yes?”

“Please write Sansa that I miss her. And I hope she is happy now.”

* * *

Sansa was fascinated. The variety of petitions that came before the Queen was mind-boggling — from the shepherd who came to ask the Queen for help after her dragons had burned his flock and badly injured his son, to the young noble who argued that the fighting pits should be reopened to honour the traditions of Meereen. Sansa remained seated at the Queen’s side for every one of them, taking notes and making her own judgements — on both the petitions, and the Queen’s answers to them. How she’d ever thought it was boring to sit with her father like this, she didn’t know. The usual pain she felt when she thought of her family was duller now. Time had softened it, and it was hard to feel pain over events of several years ago when such interesting things were happening right now.

“You know, we could solve one problem with another,” murmured Sansa during one of the short breaks the Queen took to imbibe some figs and honeyed water.

“Oh?”

“The cells of this pyramid are nearly full, Your Grace. Why not reopen the fighting pits, and let the men fight for their freedom? If they win, they can go free. If they lose, well, your dragons get a meal that you don’t have to pay for. Trial by combat is a Westerosi tradition, after all.”

The Queen just stared at her. “Virzeth Veri, your bloody teeth are showing,” she remarked as she signaled for the doors to the chamber to reopen to allow the next petitioner in.

As Missandei launched into her recitation of the Queen’s titles, Sansa wondered if the Naathi woman ever got tired of repeating the same thing over and over. If she did, she certainly never showed it.

“Thank you for seeing me, your Grace,” said the old man. “My name is Fennesz. Before you freed me, I belonged to Master Mighdal. I was tutor to his children — I taught them languages, and history, and mathematics. They know a great deal about your family, because of me. Little Calla is only seven, but she admires you very much.”

“I hope I can prove worthy of her admiration,” responded the Queen with a smile. “What can I do for you, Fennesz the Wise?”

“When you took the city, the children begged me not to leave the house. But Master Mighdal and I agreed that I must. So I lost my home. Now, I live on the streets.”

“I have outfitted mess halls to feed all former slaves, and barracks to shelter you.”

“I do not mean to offend, your Grace,” Fennesz hurried to say. “I went to one of these places. The young and strong prey on the old and weak. Take what they want and beat us if we resist.”

“My Unsullied will make them safe again in short order, my friend. This I promise!” declared the Queen. Sansa was careful not to react to the Queen’s proclamation. _The Unsullied are stretched thin as it is, particularly since the Second Sons were sent to take back Yunkai._

“Even if they are safe, who will I be then? What purpose will I serve? With my Master, I was a teacher. I had respect, and the love of his children.”

“What is it that you want from me?”

“Your Grace...I ask you to let me sell myself back to Master Mighdal.”

The Queen was clearly rattled. “You want to return to a man who owned you? Like a goat, or a...a chair?”

“Please, your Grace. The young may rejoice in the new world you have built for them, but for those of us too old to change, there is only fear. And squalor. I am not alone in this. There are many outside waiting to beg the same also.”

“I did not take this city to preside over the injustice I fought to destroy. I took it to bring people freedom.”

Fennesz bowed his head sadly, but looked up at the Queen’s next words.

“But freedom means making your own choices. Let me think on what you have told me, friend. Stay tonight in my pyramid. You will be safe here and well fed. Tomorrow we shall meet again, and I shall give you my answer.”

The old man bowed, and was escorted out by one of the gathered Unsullied, while another went to give the order to the remaining petitioners that the Queen was retiring for the day.

Sansa followed the Queen to the council chambers, where she slumped in a chair and put her head in her hands.

“They want to be owned,” the Queen despaired.

“The want to be useful,” countered Ser Barristan. “Most people like to be useful, your Grace. To feel as if their lives have meaning.”

The Queen lifted her head as Sansa placed a glass of pomegranate juice in front of her. “Of course their lives have meaning! They live, don’t they?”

“But what do they do while they live?” asked Sansa softly as she sat beside the Queen. “How do they fill in their days?”

“They…they…” the young Queen looked lost.

“There is much unrest in the city, Khaleesi,” said Ser Jorah. “What the old man said about the mess halls and the barracks is true. They are rough places, and your Unsullied are stretched too thin to make much of a difference there, given the fighting in the streets.”

“Your Grace, you have asked a lot of this city,” said Ser Barristan. “Perhaps you have asked too much.”

“Freedom, to those not used to it, can be frightening,” said Missandei from the other side of the table. “I serve you not only because you freed me, your Grace, but also because you gave me a purpose. A reason to rise in the mornings, a lodestar to set my journey by. I serve my Queen because I want to serve my Queen. Because I believe in you. If I wanted to sail home to Naarth tomorrow, I know you would give me a ship and wish me good fortune. I stay, because I am useful to you, because I believe in you and what you are doing. You raised me up from being a slave to being your advisor. You listen to me, and talk to me, and treat me like a human being. Because of your kindness, and because of the dignity you have returned to me, my Queen, I will follow you to the end of the earth. You have freed the slaves of Meereen, your Grace, and for that many of them love you. They call you Mhysa. But many are lost. They have not experienced this freedom before. Some will thrive, but others do not like it when their worlds change so much.”

“But they can do anything now,” said Daenerys, tears matting her lashes in response to her friend’s long speech. “Why would they want to be slaves again?”

“But what with?” asked Ser Jorah. “The former slaves, they have nothing but the clothes on their backs. And the Masters, they are struggling and unhappy as well. They do not know how to keep their houses afloat. How to cook, where to buy food...the markets have barely opened since you have taken the city because there are neither household slaves to do the buying nor merchant’s slaves to do the selling. You’ve choked the entire city to a standstill. Something needs to give.”

“But...bringing back slavery?”

“Perhaps there is another option,” murmured Sansa. “Fennesz was asking to be useful again, more than he was asking to be a slave again. Why not open academies, where all young people can be educated by former slaves such as Fennesz?”

“Academies?”

“They are useful things, your Grace. You can teach all of the children in the city to read and write, to speak Westerosi, to learn history as you wish it to be taught.”

“History is history, is it not?”

“History is written by the victors, your Grace,” said Ser Jorah. “It is part of any great victory.”

“And where shall we put these ‘academies’?”

“Why not some of the pyramids?” suggested Sansa. “As one of your petitioners mentioned today, they are still seen as a symbol of status, of the old Masters. By seizing them for the city, you remind the people that the Masters no longer have power. You have the power.”

“Are there enough children and tutors to fill all of the pyramids?”

“Some could be turned into homes for the sick, your Grace. Used for the offices of the tax collectors and other city officials.”

“Tax collectors?”

“Yes, your Grace,” said Ser Barristan. “An unpleasant requirement of any city, if it is to have enough money to survive.”

“And speaking of survival…” said Sansa, “we are running out of food. Meereen has no natural farmland of it’s own. The city relies heavily on trade. We have control of the Meereenese navy, but ships from Yunkai are too easily able to block the mouth of the Bay, stopping our ships from getting through. Our 93 ships will not last long if they must play escort to every merchant. Traders aren’t coming to Meereen overland either, for fear you will take their slaves away if they set foot in the city — and as mentioned before, the merchants are not trading in any case. Between the supplies sent to Yunkai with the Second Sons, the provisions for the Unsullied and the food we are supplying to the mess halls for former slaves, we are running out of food.” Sansa handed over the thick pile of paper which was her accounting of the food stores still in the city, and her calculations of how long they would last.

“Ruling is much more complicated than I thought,” mused Daenerys as she flicked through the pages dense with Sansa’s neat handwriting. “I do not recall Viserys ever telling me about this part of being a Queen. Nor do I remember Khal Drogo ever worrying about food supplies.”

“A khalasaar is different, Khaleesi,” said Ser Jorah. “You were riding with the warriors, but I assure you that the karls at the back of the khalasaar spent much of the ride hunting, and there were many slaves to do the cooking. Khal Drogo did not have to worry about where the food was coming from, as the systems were long established. You have destroyed the systems here, so it is up to you to put something new in their place.”

The Queen drained her glass of juice, and took a deep breath. “So, my friends. What do you recommend?”

Her councillors smiled, and settled in for a long night of planning how to build something new from the shards of the broken wheel of Meereen.


	9. Dragonglass and Lemon Cakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all have our talents, Jon Snow. You make just, honourable, bull-headed decisions. I drink and I know things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S05E05 ‘Kill The Boy’ and S06E02 ‘Home’.
> 
> The Ninth Wonder Made by Man hasn’t been identified in canon, so I picked one of the options that are floating around on the wiki.

“I would like you to know I am extremely unhappy about this,” muttered Daenerys to Sansa. “Extremely unhappy.”

Sansa smiled softly at her friend. “I know you are, your Grace, but it is good for the city. Since the games were announced, the violence in the city has almost disappeared. The streets are safe again, and the city is beginning to function again.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“But the Meereenese like it, Khaleesi, and so you must pretend that you do too.”

Daenerys sighed but forced a smile onto her face and waved at the surrounding crowd. They roared their approval, both the nobles in their shaded seats and the poor in the stands. It was the opening of the new-style Meereenese Games and there were no empty seats in the arena.

It had taken a lot of arguing, but in the end, Daenerys had agreed to reopen the fighting pits — though with some changes. Ferregi Antaryon and Merry had been in charge of meeting with Hizdahr zo Loraq, a young Meereenese noble who had long pushed for the pits to be reopened, to combine the Queen’s visions of reform with Meereenese tradition to create the new-style Meereenese Games. One of the more significant changes was the lack of matches that pitted men against beast. _My dragons are my children,_ the Queen had said. _And I have spent a long time among the Dothraki, to whom killing their horses for entertainment is anathema. There will be no matches involving beasts in my Games. Not now, and not ever._

There were a number of entertainments planned for today — so many that Sansa thought most people would not miss the beast-matches after all. A troupe of jugglers and acrobats had been hired and had amused the crowd as the Meereenese had taken their seats. Vendors selling all manner of food and drink were roaming the stands and Sansa had made sure that a cut of all profits from both ticket and food sales would go to the city of Meereen to help pay for more food and supplies to enter the city. _What would my parents think, to see me so concerned about taxes and supplies!_ she chuckled to herself.

Her gaze was drawn to one of the acrobats — a dwarf, whose golden hair and distinctive walk reminded her of her former husband. _Not that he could do a somersault like that, I’m sure,_ she thought. There was a juggler with this troupe, a small, dark-headed girl who fearlessly juggled knives and flaming torches. Arya had learned to juggle when they was younger, Sansa remembered. She’d been quite good at it.

She was startled from her thoughts as a horn rang out, signaling the end of the acrobats and the preparations for the races.

The horse races were one of the new types of entertainment added to these Games. Some were chariot races, wherein the chariots were decorated in bright colours with matching ribbons streaming from the arms of their drivers as they raced to be first; other races involved riders having to navigate a series of obstacles, or stand on a galloping horses back in order to pluck rings from ropes extended across the breadth of the pit. 

In creating the schedule for the Games, Ferregi and Merry had divided the city up into contrada, as Braavos had been. They’d worked with both freedmen and nobles to establish a sense of contrada pride, and each contrada now had a colour to cheer for in the various races. Sansa’s money was on The Greens, from the neighbourhood below the Great Pyramid. She’d seen their chariot teams practicing and the men and horses were skilled indeed.

There were also to be the more traditional Meereenese fights — displays of courage, skill, and strength reckoned most pleasing to the Meereenese gods. Daenerys had tried to argue against the fights being to the death, but in this the Queen had had to accept defeat, in return for the nobles funding her new academies and healing houses. She’d drawn the line at men fighting beasts, however.

Merry and Ferregi had asked the Westerosi knights, as well as the Dothraki and Unsullied, if they were interested in taking part in a display of their fighting skills, but all had declined. Sansa privately thought it was because they didn’t want their fighting styles to be too well known to the Meereenese, for that would make it easier for assassins to come for the Queen. There were still regular attempts at the Queen’s life by disgruntled former Masters, from Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor, and her personal guard and council remained vigilant. 

This vigilance would have to continue during the day today, as lastly, there were to be the trials by combat. Some men, Daenerys decreed, would not be allowed to fight for their freedom — those convicted of rape and murder, for example. They were instead immediately fed to Daenerys’ dragons. The men — and some women — fighting today for their freedom were those convicted of lesser crimes. There was to be a series of melees, and the eventual winner would go free.

Daenerys had been oddly perturbed by the thought of feeding condemned men to her dragons, but Sansa, Ser Jorah, and Ser Barristan had all argued that it was a natural way for the Dragon Queen to proceed. _After all,_ mused Sansa, _the savings from not having to keep those three in meat means we’ve been able to import enough grain from Lhazar to feed the city for two months, and outfit a new ship for the navy. Growing dragons are hungry beasts._ Much hungrier than Lady or any of the direwolves had been. Sansa missed her old pet and wondered if any of the other direwolves once owned by her family were still alive. Ghost was presumably still with Jon at the Wall, but what of Summer and Shaggydog? They hadn’t been mentioned in the reports of the Greyjoy attack on Winterfell.

There were no direwolves in Essos, so Sansa put the thoughts out of her mind and focused on the day ahead of her. The opening of the fighting pits was a compromise, and not one the Queen was entirely happy with. But the violence in the city had subsided, the markets were open again, and the number of petitioners waiting to speak to the Queen each day had dropped to only a handful, mostly tiresome complaints from old men.

Looking around the arena, Sansa smiled. They were creating something different in Meereen, something that combined the old with the new. She was proud to be part of it — to be useful, not just a pretty little bird singing from a gilded cage.

* * *

“I have decided to allow them through our gates.”

With that, the entire hall exploded into furious hubbub. At the back of the room, Tyrion sipped the truly awful ale and watched the events unfold. He’d suspected something like this would happen — Jon Snow was fond of the wildlings, it was well known. Half the men here spoke of it openly and, after befriending Sam, Tyrion knew more about it than most.

Ygritte, her name had been. A wildling spearwife, with hair as red as flame. Jon Snow had fallen hard for her, apparently, even going so far as to take her body to the heart tree north of The Wall to burn after her death.

Tyrion had also heard what else was north of The Wall. Black Brothers and wildlings alike had the same stories of a terrifying race of men who could raise the dead. It was why all bodies were burned these days, not buried. Buried corpses rose again, north of The Wall.

Which meant that everyone, every living thing, north of The Wall was fodder for these creatures. Men, women, and children could be killed and brought back to life in the service of these creatures.

It was no wonder Jon Snow wanted to bring as many south as he could. For one, he liked the wildlings. And two, it would limit the size of the army of undead.

Tyrion could see it. It seemed that Jon Snow had finally worked it out. Now it remained to see if the rest of the Night’s Watch would put the pieces together.

“Enough!” roared the Lord Commander. “Men, women, and children will die by the thousands if we do nothing.”

“Let them die!” protested Othell Yarwyck, the First Builder. “We got our own to worry about! Less enemies for us.”

 _More enemies, you pillock,_ thought Tyrion, and from his expression, it seemed Jon Snow agreed. 

Sam Tarly — faithful, loyal Sam Tarly — stood in Jon Snow’s defence, as he always would. “There is good farmland in the Gift,” he said. “Land that no one uses now. A dozen abandoned villages.”

“And why do you think the farmers abandoned those villages?” asked Bowen Marsh, the First Steward. “Because the wildlings raided them for years.”

Sam’s shoulders slumped in the face of this argument, and he sat once again.

“We’ve been fighting them for thousands of years,” growled Ser Alliser. “They’ve slaughtered villages. They’ve slaughtered our brothers.”

“And we slaughtered theirs,” countered Jon Snow. 

Edd, one of the men known to be most loyal to the Lord Commander, stood. “I will follow you anywhere. You know that. But they killed Grenn. And they killed Pyp. They killed fifty of our brothers. I can’t forget that. I can’t forgive it.”

“You were at the Fist of the First Men, Edd. If we abandon them, you know what they become. We can learn to live with the wildlings. Or we can add them to the army of the dead. Whatever they are now, they’re better than that.”

* * *

“Well. That could have gone better,” said Tyrion as he placed the meal on Jon Snow’s desk.

“Oh?”

“Of course. They could have stabbed you instead of just yelling and complaining.”

Jon Snow smiled ruefully. “Why do you think I wore my thickest jerkin to the meeting?” He slumped into his chair. “Do you think I made the right choice?”

“I do. If you and the others are right, and there is an army of the dead amassing at the other side of The Wall, you need to reduce the amount of men, women and children that can be turned into that army. Bringing the wildlings south is the easiest way to achieve that.”

“There’s another way?”

“Well, you could travel north of The Wall and kill all the wildlings, then burn their corpses. But you only have fifty men, so it’s not likely to be very successful. So you made the right choice.”

Jon Snow’s unimpressed glare burned into Tyrion, who couldn’t keep a straight face. “Hoo! I knew you’d never go for that option. Seven Hells, you are a Stark, aren’t you? Honourable and just until the last. No, all joking aside, it’s the right decision. Several of the smarter ones already see that. I know I do, but then, I’m new here. I haven’t had my friends and brothers slaughtered by the wildlings. It’s not personal for me like it is for them.”

“So what should I do?”

“Stay the course. It’s all you can do. You have given the command, now it’s time to see if it will be followed. Which it will be. There are enough who agree with you that this is the right path to take, and we are working on the others.”

“We?”

Tyrion smiled. “A magician never reveals his secrets, Lord Commander.”

“You’ve been here less than a full moon and already you have a collection of informants as well as a handful of blackmail material, don’t you?”

“We all have our talents, Jon Snow. You make just, honourable, bull-headed decisions. I drink and I know things.”

* * *

“When Black Hare reported that Virzeth Veri was down in the kitchen crying, I'd thought he'd been standing guard in the sun too long.”

The unexpected sound Daenerys’ voice made Sansa spin around, wiping the tears from her face. “Your Grace!”

Daenerys room, looking around curiously. “What on earth are you doing down here, Sansa? Aren't you usually in your rooms at this time of day, collating reports and such?”

Sansa’s lips pressed into a frown. “I should not be so predictable. I will have to remember to vary my schedule more.”

“That is all well and good, but why are you crying in one of the kitchens in my pyramid? And where are the rest of the cooks?”

“I asked them to leave me alone for a bit. I...I wanted to make something, but the memories overwhelmed me.”

“What memories? And what are you making?”

Sansa stepped to the side so her Queen could see the gathered ingredients on the bench behind her. “Lemon cakes, your Grace.”

“Lemon cakes?”

“My favourite,” explained Sansa. “But that means I have lots of memories of them, memories that overwhelmed me today. Personally, I blame my courses. They always make me weepy.”

“Mine make me wish I could breathe fire like my children do,” shared the Queen as she came over to inspect the bench. “Did anything in particular make you cry this time?”

“A few things. I was remembering how the first time I attempted to make these, my sister and I had both snuck into the kitchen that night and had scared each other half to death. We wound up having a food fight in the kitchen before our father found us and sent us back to bed.”

Daenerys laughed. “Lady Sansa!”

Sansa laughed softly. “My sister and I frequently clashed, your Grace. It's one of the happiest memories I have of her.” She sobered once again. “Which is also why I was crying. I miss her, and I haven't seen her for years. I don't know if she is alive or dead. And moreover, the last person I told this story to was my husband. Whom I also miss.”

“You haven't had much luck with people close to you, have you?” murmured the Queen as she folded her advisor into a hug. “I promise you, I shan't leave.”

“Thank you, your Grace.”

Daenerys drew back, and brushed a tear off Sansa's face. “Now. Why don't you tell me more about your husband? You never really speak of him, and I feel it would do you good to talk of him. Besides, I’m curious as to what man could make you cry.”

Sansa nodded, and handed her Queen a bowl and the eggs. “Yes, your Grace. Why don't you separate the eggs while I talk? I need three yolks.”

The Dragon Queen looked at the eggs in confusion. “Separate? How do you do that?”

“...You’ve never separated an egg before?”

“I’ve never been in a kitchen before. A khaleesi doesn’t cook!”

“Nor do Ladies from Great Houses, or at least, we don’t openly admit to it. But my mother made sure Arya and I knew the basics. She felt it was important we knew what all the jobs in the castle entailed, so we’d always respect those who do them for us. I, personally, have a lot of respect for those who clean the latrines — a job I certainly never want to do ever again.”

“Your mother seems like a sensible woman, Lady Sansa.”

“She was, your Grace. I miss her very much.” Sansa shook off the memories of her mother carefully teaching her the basics of cooking, and drew herself upright. “Separating eggs is perhaps too complicated to begin with. Here, stir this.” She handed the Queen a bowl of flour and spices to stir. It was already mixed, but the Queen seemed to want to be useful and Sansa figured more stirring wouldn’t hurt.

“What did she think of your husband?” the Queen asked as she carefully stirred the mixture, clearly concentrating very hard. It was adorable to see, and Sansa knew she would never breathe a word of it to any living soul. The Dragon Queen was not allowed to be seen as adorable, any more than Virzeth Veri was allowed to be seen as weepy.

“She...she was not overly fond of him. She blamed him for an assassin sent to kill one of my younger brothers, and took him prisoner.”

Daenerys stopped stirring and looked at Sansa in shock.

“This was before we married, of course. I don’t know what she thought of my marriage. I never saw her again after I went South with my father.”

“... _Did_ your husband send an assassin to kill your younger brother?”

“Of course not! My husband is clever enough that if he wanted someone dead, it would never be traced back to him.”

“So he was clever?”

“Clever, and kind, and witty. He’s read so many books, your Grace. We spent many evenings sitting in front of the fire, reading. He loved tales of adventure, and could recite most of Longstrider’s Wonders Made By Man from memory. I suspect I am two up on him now, of Wonders seen. He’s seen the Wall, but I’ve seen The Wall, the Valyrian Roads, and the Titan of Braavos.”

“The Wonders Made By Man?”

“Yes, your Grace, the nine wonderous things man has built? The Valyrian Roads, The Wall, the Titan of Braavos, the Triple Walls of Qarth, the Three Bells of Norvos, The Long Bridge of Volantis, The Palace with a Thousand Rooms in Sarnath, and the Great Pyramid of Ghis. Lomas Longstrider, a famous Westerosi scribe and traveller described them all in a book, many years ago now. My husband once vowed to see all of them in his lifetime.”

“Well, he can’t see all of them. The Dothraki sacked Sarnath a few years ago, and Old Ghis is nothing more than ruins.”

“That wouldn’t have stopped him. He’d’ve just visited the ruins and mourned the loss of what had been. And then find a drink somewhere and toast the achievements of civilisations long dead. Sometimes, I wish he was here. He would love your dragons.”

“My dragons? Men do not love my dragons, they fear them.”

“My husband has always loved dragons, ever since he was a little boy. He once asked his uncle for a dragon, pointing out that it didn’t need to be a big one, as he himself was only small. When his father told him that all the dragons are dead now, he cried himself to sleep.”

The Queen smiled softly, watching as Sansa mixed several ingredients into the bowl Daenerys had been stirring. “Well, one day, perhaps he will be able to see my dragons.”

“I would like that, your Grace. Things between us were...changing, when I left. I would like to see where they would go, were we together once again.”

“Changing?”

Sansa fidgeted, not looking at her Queen. “I was starting to...appreciate him. As a woman appreciates a man.”

“Ah,” nodded the Queen. “Yes. You were married very young, weren’t you?”

“Before I flowered, your Grace.”

“Before you flowered? Even my brother waited until I had flowered before selling me to Khal Drogo.”

Sansa shrugged. “It happened, your Grace. It perhaps shouldn’t have, but in the end, I was grateful for it. Tyrion was clever and funny and kind, whereas Joffrey...Joffrey was a monster. Also, I have it on good authority that he kissed like a wet fish.”

“And Tyrion did not kiss like a wet fish?”

“Tyrion kissed very well, your Grace. Very well indeed.” Sansa could feel herself blushing, and the Queen’s delighted smile said she’d noticed as well.

“So. You were married before you flowered. Did he take you that night, or wait?”

“He waited, your Grace. In fact, he’s still waiting.”

“He’s...what? You never...?”

“No, your Grace. I was too young when we married. He vowed never to touch me until I asked him to. Honestly and truly asked him to. And he kept his vow, even when I asked him out of fear and desperation.”

“Fear and desperation?”

“Life in King’s Landing was...hard, your Grace. There were many times I thought I would not make it out alive, but thanks to my husband, I did. The Lannisters have a second set of words — ‘A Lannister always pays his debts’. Tyrion saw vows as another form of debts, so...he kept his vow. Though things were progressing in that direction. I actually invited him to my bed the night before Joffrey’s wedding, or at least I tried to. I didn’t seem to make it clear what I wanted, and he stayed at his desk, working all night.”

“Ah, yes,” said the Queen. “I remember when I first tried to seduce Khal Drogo. It did not go well.”

“No?”

“No. He’d taken me on our wedding night, and several times since. Every time it hurt and I hated it. But I was more scared of what my brother might do to me than I was of what Drogo did to me, so I bit my lip and dealt with it. In time, I decided that if he got pleasure from me, I should get pleasure from him too. My first few attempts were unsuccessful, but after seeking some advice from one of my handmaidens, things became...easier. And a lot more enjoyable for both of us.”

“What kind of advice?”

“She was a former bedslave. She gave me a lot of advice. Taught me some hands-on lessons, if you will.”

“Hands on?” squeaked Sansa.

The Queen’s smile became more predatory, and she stepped into Sansa’s space. “Yes, Sansa. _Very_ hands on. Teaching me how to please myself, how to please someone else...would you like a demonstration?” she asked, her mouth just touching Sansa’s ear.

“No, no, thank you, no demonstration is needed!” squeaked Sansa as she flung herself backwards, knocking into the table with her hip and letting out a yelp of pain. Worried that she had insulted the Queen and was about to meet a dragon-y death, Sansa looked up at Daenerys with worried eyes.

Only to see her friend’s expression change from sultry seduction to amusement. “Oh! Your face! You looked so horrified!” The Queen started to laugh, and after a few moments, Sansa joined in. “No, Sansa, I am sorry. You are very beautiful, but I prefer men. I can give you what advice I can, but no practical demonstrations. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I just...I saw the chance to make you smile, and I took it. I have to be so serious, as Queen of Meereen, and I have little chance for amusement. Forgive me?”

“Of course, your Grace,” Sansa said, rubbing her hip as she moved forward. “It is forgiven, even if it is not quite forgotten.”

Silence fell as they worked to put the lemon cakes together. Once they were in the oven, Sansa found some apricot juice in the cold store and the Queen of Meereen and her closet advisor settled in to wait.

“Being the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms doesn't leave much time for merriment either, your Grace. Why do you want the Iron Throne so bad? It is not a comfortable seat by all accounts.”

“I want it because it is mine,” said Daeneyrs. “I want it because it will allow me to do good. To help people. To leave this world a better place than when I came into it.”

“There are other ways to do that.”

“Perhaps. But I want to do it this way. I've been bought and sold, captured, and raped. I want to make it so those things never happen again to any other woman. Or man.”

As the smell of the lemon cakes started to waft out of the oven, Sansa leaned over and grabbed her friend's hand.

“Then let's get you that throne.”

* * *

“Is this every book there is?” asked Gilly as she slowly walked along the shelves.

“Every book there is?” repeated Sam, only barely paying attention to the girl. 

“In the world,” Gilly clarified.

“Well, no,” said Sam. “There are thousands and thousands of books out there. This library is rather small, really.”

“Where you grew up, were there more books?”

“My father’s not the most...literate man,” said Sam. “They say the Citadel has the largest library in the world.”

“Where’s that?”

“The Citadel? In Oldtown.” Sam smiled at Gilly, seemingly expecting her to understand, before returning to his book. Tyrion watched as Gilly’s face fell and he kicked Sam under the desk. Sharply.

_Seven Hells, has no one ever taught this boy how to speak to a woman?_

“Oldtown is a city far to the south of here, my lady. It would be...maybe 5, 6 months travel from here, by cart? It contains both the Citadel and the Starry Sept. The Citadel is where Maesters are trained; the Starry Sept where the septons and septas of the Faith of the Seven are trained.”

Gilly smiled gratefully at Tyrion. “Thank you. Have you ever been there?”

“Once, when I was younger. The library truly is a wonderful place — but then again, to someone who likes reading, any library is a wonderful place.”

Footsteps interrupted them, and Stannis entered the room. His eyes skipped over Tyrion as they always did, and settled on Gilly. She bowed her head and scuttled from the room, ignoring Tyrion’s concerned look.

Sam stood from the table and greeted Stannis, but Tyrion stayed seated. If Stannis was going to pretend that Tyrion wasn’t there, Tyrion would return the favour.

“You’re Samwell Tarly,” said Stannis. 

“I am, your Grace.”

“Your father’s Randall Tarly.” 

_Stirring conversationalist, this one,_ thought Tyrion.

“He defeated my brother at the Battle of Ashford,” continued Stannis. “Only battle Robert ever lost. I told him he shouldn’t go so far west so soon, but he never listened. Fine soldier, your father. You don’t look like a soldier.”

Sam’s face was a study in awkwardness, and Tyrion was selfishly very glad that Stannis had decided to ignore him.

“But I’m told you killed a White Walker.”

Tyrion had heard that story. It was a rather good one.

“I did, your Grace.”

“How?”

“With a dagger made of dragonglass.”

“Dragonglass?”

“What the maesters call ‘obsidian’.”

“I know what it is. We have it on Dragonstone. Why would obsidian kill a Walker?”

“I don’t know!” said Sam, his frustration clear. “I’ve been going through all the old manuscripts, hoping to find something. And all I’ve learned is that the Children of the Forest used to hunt with dragonglass.”

“The Lady Melisandre told me that death marches on The Wall.”

“I’ve seen it, your Grace.” Sam sounded truly afraid. 

“Seen what?”

“The army of the dead. And when they come…”

“We have to know how to fight them.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“Keep reading, Samwell Tarly. And you too, Hill,” sneered Stannis, looking directly at Tyrion for the first time in the conversation. “We will need all the help we can get when death finishes it’s march.”


	10. Hardhome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My ancestors would spit on me if I broke bread with a crow.”  
> “So would mine, but fuck ‘em. They’re dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heaps of dialogue taken from S05E08 ‘Hardhome’. Like, most of it.

It had taken some fast-talking, but Tyrion had managed to convince Jon Snow to let him come north to evacuate the wildlings.

Tyrion had been hard pressed not to stare when they’d rowed into Hardhome, but he thought he’d hid his fascination well. He’d never seen so many wildlings, all crammed into the land surrounding the small bay. And even better, there were _giants_. Tyrion had never seen a giant before. For all that the North was fucking freezing and the ale was crap, at least he was seeing new things. Life in the South got boring after a while. Here in the North, he was never bored. 

The Lord Commander had looked at him askance as he’d slipped from the ship into the rowboat to join their party on land, but there was to be talking and delicate negotiations. He was a Lannister; talking and delicate negotiations came to him as easy as breathing.

After seeing the brutality with which Tormund Giantsbane had just slain the Lord of Bones outside, Tyrion hoped that talking would win the day. He’d brought Brightroar along, of course, but he had never used it outside of training.

“My name’s Jon Snow. I’m Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” The gathered elders — many of them not much elder than Tyrion himself, it seemed — stared distrustfully at the young man. “We’re not friends. We’ve never been friends. We won’t become friends today. This isn’t about friendship. This is about survival. This is about putting a seven-hundred foot wall between you and what’s out there.”

“You built that Wall to keep us out,” remarked one of the spearwife elders. 

“Since when do the crows give two shits if we live?” asked another, his face covered with scars. 

“In normal times we wouldn’t,” admitted Jon Snow. “But these aren’t normal times. The White Walkers don’t care if a man’s freefolk or crow. We’re all the same to them. Meat for their army. But together, we can beat them.”

“Beat the White Walkers? Good luck with that. Run from them, maybe.”

Jon Snow gestured, and Tyrion stepped forward, unslinging the bag he carried as Jon Snow explained that it wasn’t a trick. 

“It’s a gift,” said Jon Snow, “for those who join us. Dragonglass. A man of the Night’s Watch used one of these daggers to kill a walker.”

 

“You saw this?” asked Scar.

“No,” admitted Jon Snow. “But I trust the man.”

“There are old stories about dragonglass,” mused the spearwife as she turned the glittering black blade over in her hands. 

“There are old stories about ice spiders big as hounds,” sneered Scar.

“And with the things we’ve seen you don’t believe them?” she snarked back. Tyrion couldn’t help but smile as he continued to walk around the group, handing out the dragonglass daggers. He liked this one. She was Feisty.

“Come with me and I’ll share these weapons,” said Jon Snow.

“Come with you where?” asked Feisty. 

“There are good lands, south of The Wall,” he responded. “The Night’s Watch will let you through the tunnel, and allow your people to farm those lands. I knew Mance Rayder. He never wanted a war with the Night’s Watch. He wanted a new life for his people, for you. We’re prepared to give you that new life.”

“If?”

“If you swear you’ll join us when the real war begins.”

“Where is Mance?”

“He died.”

“How?”

Jon Snow paused then looked Scar straight in the eye. “I put an arrow through his heart.”

The gathered wildings broke into yells and surged forward. Tyrion flattened himself against a pole, hoping that, in the fighting, no one would spot him and he could sneak away. He’d always cultivated a larger-than-life personality to make up for his size, but right now, he was okay with being too small for a group of pissed off, blood-thirsty wildlings to think about.

The pole behind him was warm and shifted slightly, which is when Tyrion looked back and up, and up, and up, and realised he was pressed aside the leg of an actual, living, giant.

Distantly, he could hear Tormund calm the audience down, but he couldn’t look away from the giant, who seemed equally fascinated with him.

It was only when he heard Jon Snow’s voice raised in anger that Tyrion tore his gaze from the giant and turned back around. 

“I’m not asking you to forget your dead! I’ll never forget mine! I lost fifty brothers the night that Mance attacked The Wall. But I’m asking you to think about your children now. They’ll never have children of their own if we don’t band together. The Long Night is coming. And the dead come with it. No clan can stop them. The Free Folk can’t stop them, the Night’s Watch can’t stop them, and all the Southern kings can’t stop them! Only together. All of us. And even then it may not be enough, but at least we’ll give the fuckers a fight.”

 _The boy is a much better speaker than Stannis is,_ though Tyrion. _You can barely tell we spent the entire voyage up here working out what he would say._

He looked around, and saw small nods from many of the elders. It seemed they didn’t necessarily like what they heard, but they understood it. They saw the wisdom in it. 

“You vouch for this man, Tormund?” asked Feisty.

Tormund looked long and hard at Jon Snow, then shrugged. “He’s prettier than both my daughters, but he knows how to fight.”

“So do your daughters!” yelled a wag from the back of the crowd and several people chuckled, including Tormund.

“Aye, that they do, but I’d still back the crow against either of them. He’s young, but he knows how to lead. He didn’t have to come to Hardhome. He came because he needs us! And we need him.”

“My ancestors would spit on me if I broke bread with a crow,” said Scar.

“So would mine, but fuck ‘em. They’re dead,” said Feisty. Tyrion was halfway to being in love with this woman. She reminded him of Sansa, somehow. 

Feisty turned to Jon Snow, and looked him up and down. “I’ll never trust a man in black,” she said. “But I trust you, Tormund. If you say this is the way, we’re with you.”

Tormund paused, seeking the eyes of many of those gathered around the fire. “This is the way,” he said, slowly and deliberately. It was unprecedented, for the Free Folk and the Night’s Watch to join forces, and Tormund’s tone indicated he knew just what he was asking of his people.

“I’m with Tormund,” declared another wildling. “We stay here, we’re dead men. At least with King Crow there’s a chance.”

“Tor-mun,” growled the giant from high above Tyrion. It looked like the wildlings had listened, and that this was going to work.

And then their hopes were dashed.

“Keep that new life you want to give us,” said Scar. “And keep your glass, King Crow. Soon as you get on his ships, they’re gonna slit your throats and dump your bodies to the bottom of the Shivering Sea. That’s our enemy. That has always been our enemy.”

With that, Scar left the meeting house, followed by many of the wildlings.

Too many.

“I fucking hate Thenns,” said Feisty. Tormund grinned in agreement.

* * *

With a cry, Sansa tossed Kisi over her shoulder and into the dirt. The surrounding watchers cheered. Well, most of them. The Braavosi were the main ones cheering. The Dothraki, not so much. 

Khal Onobo’s khalasar had returned to Meereen after a trip to the Kingdoms of the Ifequevron. Daenerys had asked them to fetch her something, and after much debate, Khal Onobo had decided to do the Queen of Meereen ‘a favour’.

 _We are Dothraki,_ he’d said to Sansa as they’d parted. _We do not take orders. But sometimes, we do favours. If they benefit us, of course._

Several of Khal Onobo’s khalsar had joined the morning weapons training run by Inigo and Malakho, and a friendly wager had sprung up about who would win in a bout: Kisi, or Virzeth Veri.

Daenerys arrived just as the watching crowd was exchanging coin, the Braavosi benefitting from backing Sansa to win, and gave Kisi a hand up (Sansa was keeping well back, not entirely sure the Dothraki woman wasn’t trying to lull her into a false sense of security before attacking again).

“As entertaining as that was to watch, Virzeth Veri, I have need of you.”

“Of course, your Grace,” croaked Sansa, smiling gratefully at Merry as her friend handed her a water flask to drink from.

Limping slightly and drinking the flask dry, Sansa followed Daenerys out of the courtyard and through the winding corridors of the Great Pyramid to the bestiary.

Or where the bestiary was meant to be. The Dothraki had torn down the cages so as to create a nice, open space for their horses. Although there was no grass, there some trees in one corner to provide shade, and easy access to the streets of Meereen to exercise the horses on.

But there was something in the bestiary. The horses were huddled as far away from the trees as they could get, sweat visible on their coats even in the light morning heat. Several of Daenerys’ khalasar were standing guard, their arakhs drawn and held at the ready. Kovarro’s stallion was at the front of the herd, pacing back and forth in high agitation, as under the trees a small shape stirred.

Daenerys ignored the worried looks her warriors were giving her, and headed straight for the shape. Sansa noticed that as the Dothraki spotted her following their khaleesi, several of the Dothraki relaxed slightly.

 _Curiouser and curiouser,_ Sansa thought. _What could make the Dothraki and their horses nervous, but have some of the them calm when they see me?_

A familiar whine broke the air, and Sansa squinted at the shape under the trees. “Is that?” she asked, hardly daring to hope.

Daenerys grinned at her. “It is.”

Sansa broke into a run and as she got closer, she realised why the Dothraki and their horses had been scared. _A direwolf!_

It was just a baby, she realised. Hardly bigger than Lady and the others had been when her father had brought them home. 

“Your Grace...how?” she asked as she carefully lifted the small russet direwolf into her arms. It snuggled close into her neck and sniffed several times, before ceasing it’s whines and letting out a happy-sounding yip.

“The news that I was reopening the fighting pits spread faster the news I was reopening them _without_ reviving the contests between men and beasts. This one’s mother was captured and brought across the Narrow Sea by Lorathi pirates, however she did not survive the heat this far south. Nor did her other children. This was the only pup to survive.”

“Your Grace…”

“As a Targaryen, I have my dragons. As a Stark, you should have a direwolf. Say thank you, Sansa.”

“Thank you, your Grace.”

If a tear or two of happiness splashed the little pup’s coat, neither the pup nor the khaleesi mentioned it.

* * *

Loading the boats was slow going. While Tyrion wished he was back in the meeting house, trying to see if he could communicate with Wun Wun ( _A giant! An actual, living giant!_ ), but he was one of the few people at Hardhome who could count without resorting to his fingers, and so it was up to him to help ensure the row boats were not overcrowded as they evacuated the Free Folk to the waiting ships.

The Free Folk were not inclined to listen to him, but fortunately they were inclined to listen to Karsi (as he’d discovered Feisty was called). He helped her load her daughters, Brigette and Otilia onto a boat, and smiled reassuringly as Brigette tried to stay with her mother. 

“I’m right behind you, I promise,” Karsi said, reaching down to kiss her daughters on the head before signalling for the sailors to begin rowing out. 

“They’ll be fine, my lady,” promised Tyrion. “That boat is crewed by the sailors of _Stag’s Fire_ , the flagship of the fleet. They’ll be well taken care of, and we’ll join them once night begins to set.”

“I know that, little crow,” snapped Karsi. “But it is a hard thing to do, to send away the ones you love.”

Thinking back to how Jaime had looked when he’d said goodbye to Tyrion all those months ago, Tyrion imagined it was.

As the row boat made it’s steady way across the bay, Karsi shook herself and turned back to the waiting crowd. “Come on, little crow. The daylight is wasting and we have work to do.”

They had barely gotten the next few boats away when suddenly every dog in the camp began to bark wildly. Tyrion looked over at the dock beside theirs to see that the sudden cacophony had caught Jon Snow’s attention. The Lord Commander moved away from the boats, a worried look on his face. 

Thunder rumbled through the air, and all the dogs fell quiet at once. Almost as one, those still on the ground turned and looked at the cliffs that ringed Hardhome, where a snowstorm was gathering.

 _Odd,_ thought Tyrion. _The weather was clear just a few moments ago._

He’d barely finished that thought when the storm turned into a series of avalanches along the valley and those in the distance began to scream. 

He heard the sound of the village gates slamming shut, and the cries of those left outside intensifying as if the whole world was shrieking; then silence.

They all waited with baited breath, and all hell broke loose. The Free Folk rushed for the boats, desperate to leave, while the fighters amongst them ran to cover the retreat. Tyrion tried to make for the boats, as he was no fighter, but Karsi grabbed him and dragged him along.

“Leave me! I’m hardly a fighter!”

“You wear a sword! Use it!”

“Swords don’t work against wights and walkers! Only dragonglass does!”

“It’ll slow them down, little crow! That’s all we can ask for now!”

The archers were firing as fast as they could, but Tyrion could see it was only a matter of time before the wights breached the village walls. 

“You should be on one of those boats!” he yelled at Jon when they reached him.

“So should you!”

“My little girls got on,” spat Karsi as she positioned herself beside Jon, weapons at the ready. “They going to let them past The Wall even if you’re not there?”

“You have my word. I’ve given orders.”

“Don’t think you’re going to be there to enforce those orders!” snapped Karsi.

Tormund made it through the press of bodies and spun Jon around. “If they get through, everyone dies!”

 _Surely,_ Tyrion thought, _surely he’ll see sense and retreat. He can’t risk himself. Without him, there’s no way his precious wildlings will be let through to The Gift._

But Jon Snow proved that he was Stark to the core, and drew his sword. “Night’s Watch! To me!” he roared over the noise of the crowd, and Tyrion was gobsmacked to see that the men in black, and several of the fighters amongst the Free Folk, did indeed run to him, readying their swords and axes as they ran.

He was even more gobsmacked to discover he was one of them, though if you asked him, he’d blame it on the grip Karsi still had on the back of his tunic.

Roaring, Tormund and the Lord Commander shoved their way to the stockade as the terrified Free Folk stampeded towards the relative safety of the boats. 

The fight was terrifying and hard. It took several strikes to fell a wight — blows that would stop a mortal man in his stride barely made an impact on the maddened dead. He stuck close to Karsi and found that, almost always, the wights would go for her first, rather than him. He wondered if it was because she was the bigger target...he didn’t think on it overmuch, however, instead helping the spearwife take down as many wights as they could.

He was so focused on the battle in front of him that the roar of Wun Wun breaking out of the meeting hall only barely registered. Several wights had scaled the giant, who pulled them off and tore them to shreds with his bare hands. Tyrion was glad Wun Wun could defend himself — he imagined an undead giant would be harder to kill than an undead human. 

Wun Wun stomped his way through the battlefield, and Tyrion turned his attention back to the fight against the wights. 

They were coming thick and fast, and he and Karsi were backed nearly to the meeting house when Jon Snow staggered out of it and fell, his sword going wide.

Tyrion watched in horror as something… _more_ than the wights emerged from the burning shell of the meeting house, stalking Jon Snow. The creature’s face was dried and wizened, but none of the flesh was missing as it often was on the wights. The creature’s eyes glowed an inhuman blue, and it moved with more grace than Tyrion thought the dead should really be capable of.

 _It’s a White Walker!_ he thought. _My gods, the stories are true._

The White Walker continued to stalk towards Jon Snow, who scrabbled one-handed in the snow for his sword. But it was out of reach, and the White Walker had nearly reached his victim.

Not knowing what would happen but hoping he could at least distract it until the Lord Commander could regain his sword, Tyrion swung Brightroar in an arc and brought it across the back of the Walker’s legs, hoping to cut it’s hamstrings and slow the creature down a bit. Give the superior swordsman lying on the ground time to recover.

He only meant to distract it.

But as soon as Brightroar touched it, the Walker exploded into shards of ice.

Tyrion looked at his sword in shock. Jon Snow looked at Tyrion in shock then scrambled for his sword, yelling “Behind you!”

Tyrion spun around and deflected the attacking wight. Between them, he and Jon Snow made short work of the wight and rejoined Karsi. They started to fight their way away from the meeting house and towards Tormund when they came face to face with children.

Undead children.

The fight left Karsi and she froze, a look of horror on her face.

“Karsi! Our backs!” Still looking as if all her nightmares had come true at once, Karsi nevertheless obeyed Jon Snow’s battlefield voice and turned around, protecting Jon and Tyrion from the adult wights rushing them, while they took care of the children. 

The last of the children proved nearly impossible to kill, but Tyrion managed to strike the killing blow, leaving them free of the undead in the immediate vicinity. With a groan, Jon Snow collapsed to the ground, spitting blood. The fight with the White Walker had taken a lot out of him, Tyrion guessed. He reached down to see if there was anything he could do for the other man when running footsteps made Tyrion spin around, his sword at the ready.

“Come on!” roared Edd. 

“Dragonglass!” slurred Jon, lurching to his feet with the help of Karsi.

“Fuck the glass! We’re going to die here!”

An unearthly howl made them all turn to the cliffs, and they watched in horror as tens, hundreds, _thousands_ of wights began to pour off the cliff and land within the stockade. 

At first, it looked like the fall had killed them, but the living barely had a chance to draw breath before the dead were rising once again. 

“Oh, fuck!” screamed Edd, which was taken as the signal for a general retreat by those still able to move. 

The sound of the stockade gate hitting the ground only made them run harder.

Despite his best efforts, Tyrion found himself falling behind. His legs were shorter, and he was less able to jump over the debris of the battle. 

He tripped and fell and thought it was the end, when suddenly a great hand grabbed him and lifted him high.

It was Wun Wun, running towards the ocean along with the others. 

The giant tossed Tyrion onto his shoulders, and pulled a burning beam from the meeting house. The giant used it as a club, keeping the wights well back from the fleeing living, while Tyrion clung on for dear life with one hand, the other swinging Brightroar to fight off the wights who managed to climb up Wun Wun’s back. 

“Cast off! Cast off!” everyone yelled as they reached the jetty. The boat started to move off before everyone was in it, with Karsi taking a flying leap to make it on time.

Tyrion, clinging to Wun Wun’s shoulder, cut down another wight as Wun Wun started to walk into the ocean. Two more jumped onto the giant’s back as he waded into the sea, with Tyrion taking care of one while Wun Wun tore the other in half. 

_Brienne trained me to fight from horseback,_ he thought wildly. _Imagine her face if she could see my mount now!_

A few more wights jumped for them, trying to gain either the boat or the giant, but all fell into the ocean and didn’t resurface. Seeing this, Wun Wun pulled Tyrion from his shoulder and dropped him in the boat as he continued past, to the ship anchored further out.

Lying dazed and winded on top of Tormund, Tyrion wondered how on earth the giant was going to get on board a ship without capsizing it. 

Flopping off Tormund to the bottom of the boat and dragging himself into a seated position, Tyrion joined the others in looking back at Hardhome. It was a massacre. The last few living fighters retreated to the waterline, but with no boats it was hopeless and they were soon overwhelmed. 

All was quiet, and then out of the swirling snows a White Walker stalked forward along the jetty. This one looked...older, somehow, than the one Tyrion had killed. He had a crown of thorns growing from his head, and his eyes burned blue not only with unearthly fire but also rage and _hunger_.

The White Walker looked along the shoreline, and Tyrion couldn’t stop himself from following his gaze. As far as the eye could see there was death. Dead Free Flock, dead crows. Dead men, women, children, dogs. Nothing moved, despite the howling wind.

Then, as the crowned Walker raised his arms, the fires died and the dead rose.

All along the shore, as far as the eye could see, the dead stood again. Every single one of the Free Folk they hadn't been able to get onto the ships.

The boat was silent as they stared at the horror unfolding on the shore, and Tyrion realised just what they were facing. It seemed inevitable that the dead would march on The Wall, and that they had to stop them.

Seeing Jon Snow standing frozen, tears in his eyes over the people he'd been unable to save, Tyrion gave the order. Slowly, mournfully, the little boat retreated to the _Stag’s Fire_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn’t kill Karsi. She’s too cool.


	11. Tooth and Claw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are the Faceless Men. They have been sent to kill you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue/events taken from S05E09 ‘The Dance of Dragons’, S05E10 ‘Mother’s Mercy’. Also, according to the GoT Wikia, Daenerys was 22 as of Season 7.
> 
> My beta, brookebond, hasn't been able to have a look over this chapter, so if you see anything weird re: grammar or continuity, can you please let me know? Thank you!
> 
> Also, if anyone feels like drawing this first scene, I would love you forever and ever...

“What will you call her?” asked Daenerys as they watched the direwolf pup tumble about on the floor of the Council Chamber, ‘killing’ a cloth ball.

“I was going to name her after my mother,” replied Sansa. “Then I realised calling a direwolf ‘Cat’ was rather stupid.”

The Queen snorted. “What about after your sister?”

Sansa shook her head. “It was tempting, your Grace. But it is bad luck to name an animal after the living.”

“But Arya’s dead, isn’t she?” asked Merry, reaching forward to tempt the pup with a scrap of dried meat. “At least, that’s what everyone in King’s Landing said.”

Sansa shook her head. “That is what everyone in King’s Landing said, but...but I don’t want it to be true. I don’t want to believe it. I want to believe I’ll see her again, someday. Naming the pup after her would make it real. And I don’t want to make it real.”

“What about Nymeria?” suggested Daenerys. “She was a famous warrior queen. A fighting name for a ferocious direwolf!”

The pup didn’t look ferocious at the moment though. She was a tiny ball of fluff, just too big to carry in one hand, with overlarge paws that she constantly tripped over. The most ferocious thing about her was how big and fuzzy her tail was compared to the rest of her.

“Nymeria was Arya’s direwolf,” said Sansa. “We each had one. Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria, Summer, Shaggydog, and Ghost. I suspect Ghost is the only one left. And maybe Nymeria. She disappeared on our trip south, so she may have survived out in the wild somewhere. Regardless, this one needs her own name. I’m thinking...Lyanna.”

“Lyanna?” asked Merry.

“After my aunt. She died before I was born.”

“Lyanna. Wasn’t she the one that my brother…?”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“Well then. My family took one Lyanna from yours, it seems rather fitting that I give you another in return.” Carefully, Daenerys gathered the pup up into her arms and handed her to Sansa before drawing the dagger hanging at Sansa’s waist and gently touching it to the pup’s shoulders. “I hereby dub you Lyanna, Direwolf of House Stark. May you serve faithfully and well, and live a long and happy life.”

The young direwolf squirmed in Sansa’s grasp until she could lick the woman’s chin, letting out a happy-sounding yelp as she did so.

The Queen and her council laughed in delight at the pup’s actions, not noticing the looks on the faces of those who stood in the shadows, watching the foreign queen and her foreign council fawn over a foreign animal.

* * *

“It was a failure,” Jon Snow told Sam as they watched the wildlings cross through Castle Black. 

“It wasn’t,” argued Sam. Beside them, Tyrion nodded in agreement. 

“I went to save them. I failed.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes. The Lord Commander had been muttering similar things the entire time they’d been on the boats back to The Wall, and everyone — Edd, Tormund, Karsi and Tyrion himself — had gotten sick of hearing it, and told the Lord Commander to shut up.

Sam, however, was too kindhearted to take such an approach, and seemingly had decided to try and logic Jon into believing him. “You didn’t fail him. Or him. Or her.” He nodded at the wildlings as they passed. “Every one of them is alive because of you. And no one else.”

“I don’t think that fact’s lost on them,” said Jon morosely, looking past the column of wildlings to the Black Brothers glowering at the procession. 

It seemed the courtyard took a breathe as Wun Wun emerged from the tunnel, but the giant didn’t say anything. He bowed his head in defeat and joined the Free Folk as they made their way out of Castle Black and into the Gift.

Movement out of the corner of his eye made Tyrion turn to see Ser Alliser glowering as he stalked across the courtyard to them. Sam also spotted the First Ranger, and hurriedly decided that he had elsewhere to be. Tyrion stayed, however. He’d realised he could learn interesting things by listening to the conversations between Thorne and Snow.

“You have a good heart, Jon Snow,” sneered Ser Alliser. “It’ll get us all killed.” 

With that, Ser Alliser pushed his way through the column of Free Folk, and knocking a young woman to the ground. Tyrion helped her up, not missing the sad look on Jon Snow’s face as he watched his squire spit in the direction of the Free Folk and stalk off behind Ser Alliser.

* * *

“He raised his hands and they all stood up at once.” Jon looked terrified still, despite many days and the presence of The Wall between him and the army of the dead. Tyrion agreed with the Lord Commander — it was terrifying, knowing what was out there. “Thousands of them. The biggest army in the world.”

“So what’re you gonna do?” asked Sam, suitably horrified. 

“Hope they don’t learn how to climb The Wall,” muttered Tyrion into his wine. Sam gave him a startled look, but Jon just snorted.

“The Imp has the right of it. That’s all we can do.”

“But...the Dragonglass?”

Jon shook his head. “No one’s ever getting that back now. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Not unless we had a mountain of it.”

 _The Wall doesn’t have a mountain of it,_ thought Tyrion. _But I know where there is one._ He was about to speak up when the conversation shifted.

“But...you killed a White Walker.”

“Brightroar killed a White Walker,” Tyrion interjected. At the looks the two men gave him, he snorted. “What? Can’t a former Lannister name his sword after the most famous Lannister sword?”

After a moment, the other two seemed to decide this was not a discussion they wanted to have right now.

“They shatter steel axes like they were glass, but somehow Brightroar shattered the Walker instead,” said Jon.

“What’s so special about Brightroar?” asked Sam.

“It is Valyrian steel,” commented Tyrion, not wanting to give away the origins of the sword too much. There were still some things he figured Jon didn’t need to know about what had happened to his family in King’s Landing.

“Like Longclaw,” noted Jon as he took another swig of wine. “Valyrian steel, dragonglass, fire...these things seem to be able to kill them. Nothing else does.”

“How many Valyrian steel swords are left in the Seven Kingdoms?” asked Sam.

“Not enough,” said Tyrion. 

“I’m the first Lord Commander in history to sacrifice the lives of sworn brothers to save the lives of wildlings. How’s it feel to be friends with the most hated man in Castle Black?” he asked, a sad grin on his face.

Tyrion didn’t realise he’d joined a pity party. He was about to make a snarky comment but Sam knew exactly what to say.

“You were friends with me when I first came here. And I wasn’t winning any elections back then.”

“Here’s to us then. Long may they sneer.”

With that, all three men tapped their cups together and drank deeply.

 _Gods this wine is shit,_ groused Tyrion as he swallowed his down and went to find a refill. _Why people insist on putting the amphora all the way on the other side of the room instead of the table I will never know._ He dragged it back over to the table and refilled their glasses as Sam broke the silence.

“I wanted to ask you something. To ask something of you.”

For a wild second, Tyrion thought Sam was going to propose marriage to Jon. The boy's face and tone were exactly that of a young suitor about to ask for their beloved's hand in marriage.

“I want you to send me, Gilly, and the baby to Oldtown, so I can become a Maester. It’s what I’m meant to be, not this.”

“I need you here, Sam,” said Jon. “If you leave, who’s left to give me advice I can trust?”

Sam looked directly at Tyrion, then responded, “Well, there’s Edd.”

“Oi!” exclaimed Tyrion, as the other two broke into chuckles. “I’ll remember that, Tarly. See if I won’t.”

“I’ll be more use to you as a Maester,” Sam continued once their laughter faded. “More use to everyone now Maester Aemon’s gone. If Gilly stays here, she’ll die. The baby she’s named after me will die. And I’ll end up dying too, trying to protect them. And I’d brave a thousand White Walkers before letting that happen.”

“We do need a Maester, Jon,” said Tyrion. “Neither Sam or I have the training, and all the reading we’ve done only gets us so far. It turns out there are some practical skills that cannot be taught from books.”

“Why aren’t you asking to go to Oldtown as well?”

Tyrion looked down at his cup. “Gilly can go with Sam. My interest is...still here in the North.” It was as close as he was willing to say, but Tyrion wanted to see Sansa again. Just once. Just to know she was okay. Then he could let her go to marry someone else, someone better for her. 

He wanted to say goodbye, and training as a Maester took years. If they were going to defend against the White Walkers, they would need as many men as they could get. Which meant treating with the lords of the North. Which meant Winterfell. Which meant Sansa. Tyrion wasn’t willing to leave The Wall for years of training in the south, in case this was his chance to see Sansa and say goodbye.

Jon sent him a suspicious look, then turned back to Sam. “You know that the Citadel will make you swear off women too.”

“Oh they’ll bloody try!”

“Sam?” asked Tyrion, wondering if he was reading Sam’s expression right.

“What?”

“Sam?” repeated Jon, a smile teasing around his eyes. Sam nodded with a sly smile of his own.

“You’ve just been beaten half to death! How did you-?”

“Very carefully!” declared Sam, and they all broke into laughter and clinked their cups together again.

“Well, at least the end of the world’s working out well for someone,” remarked Jon as he filled their cups for another round.

Tyrion rolled his eyes, and turned the topic towards what areas Sam was most interested in studying in to become a Maester. He’d thought of studying to be one himself, long ago, before his father had made it clear that becoming a Maester was not a suitable past-time for a Lannister. Maybe, once he’d said goodbye to Sansa and finally put their ghost of their marriage to rest, he would head to Oldtown and train as one himself. 

Later that night, as he and Sam left Jon’s quarters, leaning slightly on each other as they navigated the hallway that had been much easier to walk down before, Sam stopped him and looked Tyrion square in the eye.

“Take care of him until I come back. It’s a hard road he’s been given to walk, and he’s going to need as many friends as he can get along it.”

Touched by Sam’s concern for his friend and trust in himself, Tyrion nodded.

And then rapidly stopped nodding. He was going to be sick if he kept that up.

* * *

These ones smelled funny, this wolf realised. Like sharp metal and unhappiness. The mistress smelled like lemons and love and kindness, while the other nice ones smelled of sunshine and treats and happiness and fire. This wolf had slipped out of the mistress’ room to see if this wolf could find the kitchens and more treats when these people had arrived.

The smell of these people made this wolf sneeze. It almost felt like the mistress was with this wolf in this wolf’s head, despite the lump in the bed indicating that the mistress was still fast asleep. _Hide,_ said the thing that felt like mistress. _Follow._ This wolf did as the mistress-in-head said, and hid in the shadows. The bad-smelling ones could not see this wolf, and kept walking. But they walked funny. They stopped often, and scuttled, and stayed in the shadows. 

This wolf’s legs didn’t work very well yet, but even this wolf could walk better than that. This wolf proved it, by following the bad-smelling ones as they walked (badly!) through this wolf’s den. This wolf wanted to bite them, to make them leave, but this wolf was very small.

 _One day,_ this wolf thought, _this wolf will be big enough that this wolf can bite all the bad-smelling people and make them leave._ This wolf felt amusement from the mistress-in-head, and the feeling of _soon_.

And if this wolf was not big enough to make them leave, this wolf would go find the flying fire things. They smelled so interesting. This wolf was looking forward to meeting them. This wolf was sure that the flying fire things could make anything leave. 

This wolf watched as the bad-smelling ones reached the door behind which the fire-lady slept. They did something to the ones at the door, and suddenly the smell of blood filled in the air. This wolf was suddenly very, very scared.

The bad-smelling ones slipped into the room where the fire-lady was sleeping. This wolf tried to make a noise, tried to wake someone up, but this wolf was stuck. This wolf couldn’t move; couldn’t make a sound.

The smell of blood got stronger.

* * *

“They entered through the south-east entrance, your Grace. It seems they were let in by one of the kitchen boys, and killed everyone they came across.”

“Who were they?”

“Faceless Men, your Grace. Their faces changed after they died.”

“Do you know who hired them?”

Ser Barristan shook his head. “No, your Grace. They never carry anything that can be traced back.”

Ser Jorah took over the explanation. “However, based on the expense to hire not one, but three Faceless Men? There are only a four or five families in the whole of Meereen who could do it single-handedly. Though we cannot rule out the idea that several of them combined funds to assassinate you.”

“Assassins. In my bedchamber.”

“Your Grace, this one is sorry. He left your safety to his brothers, and for that you nearly lost your life.”

“No, Grey Worm, do not blame yourself. Your Unsullied are good, but you are battlefield warriors. Faceless Men are not something you were ever trained against. And I think we have all gotten complacent. Everything seemed to be going so well.”

“The fact remains, your Grace, that if Lady Sansa hadn’t raised the alarm, you would most likely be dead.”

“How did you know what was happening, Lady Sansa?” asked Ser Jorah, as Sansa clutched Lyanna close to her, the heartbeat of her direwolf calming her.

“I had a dream. A very weird dream, as if I was seeing things through Lyanna’s eyes, but it felt more...more _real_ than any other dream has ever felt. When I awoke to find her missing and my door ajar, I wondered if there might be truth to the dream. The guards outside my door were dead; their throats slashed. So I raised the alarm, grabbed my weapons, and ran to protect the Queen.”

“Your actions most likely saved my life,” said Daenerys. “Thank you, Sansa.”

“Thank Lyanna, your Grace,” said Sansa, starting to shake as the fight left her. “It was her who alerted me.”

“She will have nothing but the best cuts of meat for the rest of her days,” promised the Queen as she came over and smoothed her hand over the pup’s head. “But for now, I would like you and her to sleep in here with me, in case there are any more surprises coming for us this night. Everyone else, return to your chambers. We will reconvene in the morning, and figure out what to do. This is the closest assassins have gotten yet, and it will not do.”

Sansa offered to sleep on one of the daybeds in Daenerys’ room, as her husband had in the early days of their marriage, but the khaleesi was having none of it and ordered Sansa into her bed.

As Sansa wearily slipped into the great bed, she could vaguely hear Ser Jorah, Ser Barristan, Daario and Grey Worm arguing outside the door over who was going to stand guard for the rest of the night.

It seemed that Daenerys could hear it as well, as she leaned over, grasped a shoe from the ground, and threw it at the door. 

“I don’t care who guards my door, as long as they do it silently!” the Queen yelled.

The noise outside her door instantly quietened, and Sansa giggled as she blew out the candles on her side of the bed.

“Men. Honestly,” grumbled Daenerys.

“They are impossible,” agreed Sansa as she tried to get comfortable. The Queen’s bed was much harder than her own. 

Lyanna didn’t seem to have any such problems, the pup curling up into a small ball beside Sansa’s head and immediately falling asleep.

After much tossing and turning from Sansa, the Queen’s arm descended over Sansa, locking her in place. “Sansa. Enough. Sleep now. Worry later.”

Sansa paused, and then very carefully, asked “Your Grace...this wasn’t all just a plot to get me into your bed after all, was it?”

The Queen erupted into laughter, Sansa only a beat behind her. They were both still giggling as they drifted off to sleep.

* * *

“It was Hizdahr zo Loraq.”

Daenerys stared at Ser Jorah. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, khaleesi. All signs point to him.”

“He could be being framed by someone. After all, wasn’t he one of those who helped us the most with the Games?”

Sansa stepped forward. “He did help us then, your Grace, but it was he who hired the Faceless Men. My little birds confirmed it.”

“I had the investigation under control!” snapped Jorah.

“You did, Ser Jorah, which is why I sent my little birds along as well. You are a knight, and honourable. Your investigation was not...subtle. My birds were watching those who were watching you, to see if there was anything else to be seen. Fortunately for you, there wasn’t.”

“Fortunately for me? Khaleesi, I must object! I have been with you from the start! No one is more loyal to me. How do you know it is not Lady Lannister who ordered your assassination? She is a Stark, and a Lannister, and allayed with the Braavosi — how can you trust her at all?”

“She obviously does, Ser Jorah. Otherwise, I would not have spent the last night in her bed.”

Sansa smiled a sweet smile she’d learned from Margaery, and enjoyed watching the old knight puff up in offence. In all honesty, she liked Ser Jorah, but he was a stick in the mud and his ongoing crush on Daenerys was making life awkward. She enjoyed riling him up whenever she could. She could see from Ser Barristan’s smirk that the former Kingsguard was amused at how Sansa was poking the bear.

Literally, given the sigil of House Mormont.

Besides, she knew damn well he’d been promised a pardon for spying on Daenerys back when King Robert had been alive. Varys himself had told her. She was tolerably sure Jorah wasn’t still a spy for them, but...she was going to keep an eye on him, just in case. 

“Enough, both of you. I trust you both, and if you continue to squabble like this I will send you both out riding border patrols. With only each other for company.”

Sansa dropped into a curtsey and Jorah bowed, their argument paused for now.

“Has Hizdahr zo Loraq confessed?”

“Not yet, khaleesi. We have captured him, but he has not confessed.”

“I do not approve of torture, Ser Jorah. You know this.”

“I do, khaleesi, which is why he has not been touched. He is simply in the dungeons, receiving one meal a day.”

Daenerys sighed. “What are we going to do with him? And how do we know if anyone else is planning an assassination of their own? Or was working with Hizdahr to help take down the Mother of Dragons?”

At the mention of the dragons, Sansa got an idea. “Your Grace...can your dragons sense lies?”

“No, Lady Sansa. Why do you ask?”

“...Do you think we might convince people that they do?”

* * *

“Hizdahr zo Loraq!” The orator’s voice rang across the courtyard outside the Great Pyramid. The noble families of Meereen had been ordered to attend the trial of Hizdahr zo Loraq — the commonfolk had crushed into the courtyard as well, unwilling to miss the downfall of one of the Great Masters. The House of Loraq was an ancient and proud line of slavers, after all — and many of their former slaves were eager to see death befall a scion of that house.

“You are charged with the attempted murder of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, and Ruler of Meereen. What say you to this charge?”

Beside her, Sansa heard Missandei mutter that she did that introduction much better, and fought to hide her smile. It was true, however the Meereenese orator’s voice was more easily heard from all sides of the courtyard. They’d tested it.

“I am innocent! These are false accusations! I would never do something like this, khaleesi. Never!” The once proud man, his tokar torn and soiled from his time in the dungeons, fell to his knees in front of Daenerys as he professed his innocence.

“Is that true, Hizdahr?”

“It is true, khaleesi!”

“Then why do we have testimony of many, saying that you were not only the one who ordered my death, but that you also have a circle of friends and accomplices that you worked with to ensure I would die and you would become the next Ruler of Meereen?”

If Sansa hadn’t been looking for it, she’d’ve missed it, but there it was. The tiniest of flinches as Daenerys spoke, indicating that what Daenerys had said was true. There was a conspiracy, and Hizdahr zo Loraq was at the center of it. She signalled behind her back.

“It is a lie, khaleesi! I am loyal to you!”

“Did you know, Hizdahr, that my dragons can sense lies?” Drogon, perched upon the top of the Great Pyramid, let out a roar, as Viserion and Rhaegal, perched much closer, shot flames towards Hizdahr, ‘missing’ him by only a few feet. The crowd leapt back in shock, and Sansa smelled the sharp tang of urine permeate the air. Hizdahr had wet himself in fear.

“Are you sure you want to continue to lie, Hizdahr zo Loraq?”

“No, khaleesi, I will tell the truth!” The terrified noble began to gabble out everything — the names of the co-conspirators, where they had met, and how much they had paid for the assassins. Sansa was reluctantly impressed with the last part — the conspirators had nearly bankrupted themselves to hire the Faceless Men. Even to a Lannister bride it was a lot of money. _If they want her dead that badly, we must be doing something right,_ she thought.

As each of the conspirators were named, pairs of Unsullied materialised behind them in the crowd and hauled them forward. Those named were ones that they had already suspected of being the conspirators, thanks to Sansa’s little birds and Ser Jorah’s more obvious investigation. They were mostly nobles, but there was more than a few Graces from the city’s temples — including the Green Grace herself, Galazza Galare.

Sansa was concerned when there was no one she didn’t expect. _There must be others,_ she thought. _This can’t be so easy. We must remain on our guard._

As the conspirators were hauled to the front of the courtyard, each was asked to confess. Those who did automatically were moved to the side; those who protested their innocence soon changed their tune after Viserion or Rhaegal spat flames towards them.

Very few protested their innocence.

Once all had confessed, the conspirators were roped together and forced to kneel at Daenerys’ feet.

“You kneel before me charged with the crime of attempted murder. I, Daenerys of the House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, and Ruler of Meereen, sentence you to death. For the crime of attempting to kill their mother, you will be fed to my children. To those who may think of removing me as Ruler of Meereen, let the fate of these man remind you that I am the Mother of Dragons, and I will not be defeated. _Kisalbar!_ "

The Unsullied stepped smartly back as the three dragons descended upon their meal, the cries of the dying mingling with the shrieks of the dragons as they tore their food to shreds.

None of those in the courtyard dared move, for fear the blood-splattered dragons would turn on them instead. By the time the dragons were through, the conspirators were either gone, dead, or dying. The Unsullied moved through them, providing a quick death to those still living. Once Grey Worm signaled that this was done and that all the conspirators were dead, Daenerys turned and walked back into the Great Pyramid, followed by her council.

It was the khaleesi’s twenty-second Name Day, Sansa registered. Watching as Daenerys reached her private quarters and finally let the tears flow from having ordered the death of so many people, Sansa hoped that future Name Days would be kinder to the young Queen.

* * *

It was a dream, this wolf realised. This wolf was sleeping in the master’s chamber, basking in front of the fire. This couldn’t be true. Since the new ones had arrived, this wolf been kept out of the way. It was unfair. Some of the new ones were small! This wolf liked small ones! They didn’t shriek or smell scared like the bigger ones did. They also tended to drop food that this wolf could then eat. It had been many days and nights already. Most of the new ones had left the den. Why was this wolf still kept away?

Which was how this wolf knew it was a dream. This wolf felt the presence of the master in his head, as well as in the room with him, and knew it was a true-dream. 

In the dream, the master’s little bad-smell entered the room, babbling something that made the master excited. The master followed the little bad-smell, so this wolf followed the master. They were met outside by the big bad-smell, and led towards a group of men. None of them smelt nice to this wolf. This wolf noticed that there were none of the nice-smells in the group — not the round nice-smell, not the small nice-smell, not the fishy nice-smell.

This wolf not like this. His fur bristling, this wolf snarled, only to be shushed by the master.

The men closed between this wolf and the master, and it was if manacles snapped around this wolf’s legs, keeping him locked in place.

But this wolf could still see the knives flashing in the night as the master was cut down, and could smell the blood of the master as it flowed out into the snow.


	12. The Red Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have often joked, my Lady, that there are two things I do: I drink, and I know things. And I know that when the White Walkers come for us, we need Jon Snow on our side. I know it as certainly as I know that snow is white, that the sky is blue, and that blood runs through my veins. We need Jon Snow with us in the wars to come. Look into your fire, and tell me you don’t see the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue from S06E01 ‘The Red Woman’ and S06E02 ‘Home’.
> 
> This chapter also hasn't been betaed, so if you spot any typos or things that don't make sense please let me know <3

The first Tyrion knew anything was amiss was when the howling started. He was sharing a drink with Davos, the old knight crushed by the death of his king and the end of the Baratheon cause. Davos had really believed in Stannis, had been at Castle Black to try and convince the Night’s Watch to come to Stannis’ aid, and was at a loss over what to do now. His family was gone — his sons killed in the Battle of Blackwater; his wife long dead. Tyrion had tried to apologise for the Battle, but Davos had brushed him off.

“It was war, boy. It happened long ago. I’ve made my peace with it now.”

“I’m hardly a boy!”

Davos had snorted. “Anyone without grey in their beard is a boy to me.”

Both of their heads had snapped towards the door when the howling started.

“Sounds like wolves,” Davos had remarked.

“There’s no wolves near here,” Tyrion had said as he’d gotten to his feet. “The presence of Ghost keeps them away. And I’ve never heard Ghost make a sound other than snarls.”

Curious, they’d left the room and entered the courtyard, scanning to see what was wrong. 

“There!” Davos had pointed, and set off at a run. Tyrion looked to see what Davos had seen and felt his stomach drop to his knees. 

Jon Snow was lying in a pool of blood in the far corner of the courtyard.

They’d reached him just as others had entered the courtyard, to see a sign tacked up above his head declaring the Lord Commander a traitor. 

Tyrion looked up as others arrived, and the look on Edd’s face was heartbreaking.

“Get him inside,” Davos commanded, and the gathered watchmen carefully lifted Jon Snow’s corpse and carried it to the Lord Commander’s chambers. Following along with them, Tyrion looked back to see Davos staring at the pool of blood in the snow. The old man looked frightened, and Tyrion wondered what he was seeing.

Once inside, Edd gently closed Jon Snow’s eyes, and the gathered men were silent, heads bowed in prayer or contemplation. Tyrion’s mind whirled frantically. Who did it was beyond question; what it meant was less clear.

“Thorne did this,” spat Edd, and Tyrion agreed with him. The First Ranger loathed Jon, and had fought against every command the Lord Commander had issued him with. He’d been furious when Jon had executed Janos Slynt (an execution Tyrion had been inordinately pleased with, given Slynt’s hatred of himself), and it seemed the rescue of the Free Folk from Hardhome had been the final straw.

“How many men can you trust? How many are Thorne’s?” Davos asked.

Edd looked around. “The men in this room.”

Tyrion stepped forward. “There are a few more, Edd, Ser Davos. Of the forty men left in Castle Black, there are some ten who are — were — loyal to Jon. Three had no strong opinions either way — Big Gordar and his like who are too simple to have much interest in anything. They’ll follow the first ones to give them orders, so it would be best to bring them into our fold immediately. The rest are either Thorne’s men, or sympathetic to his cause.”

The men in the room looked at him, surprise written on their faces. 

“How many times do I have to say it? It’s what I do. I drink and I know things.”

Tyrion almost thought he saw a smile on Davos’ face while Edd ordered one of the other men to fetch Big Gordar and the other two, and bring them to the Lord Commander’s antichamber. Tyrion nodded in approval — who knew how seeing the body of the Lord Commander would affect their simple brains. 

(Tyrion was quite fond of Big Gordar, who liked to spend his downtime making stuffed bears out of scraps of fabric. He couldn’t be trusted to repair clothing as he’d always make bears, but the bears themselves were rather cute. He’d persuaded Big Gordar to give some of his bears to the wildling children that had passed through Castle Black, causing some smiles on an otherwise solemn day. He’d then helped Big Gordar find some fabric to make more bears, because he’d been sad that his bears had left him).

“Does the wolf know yet?” asked Davos. “We may need all the help we can get.”

“From the howls we heard earlier, I’m guessing he does,” remarked Tyrion.

A knock at the door had them all drawing their swords and falling into defensive stances.

“Ser Davos,” said Melisandre through the door. 

Edd looked at Ser Davos, and when the knight nodded, went to let the Red Woman inside as the others holstered their weapons. 

The ruby at Melisandre’s neck glimmered in the low light of the room, and the Red Woman looked even more distraught to see Jon dead than she had to see Stannis’ army defeated.

“I saw him in the flames,” whispered Melisandre. “Fighting at Winterfell.” 

Tyrion desperately wanted to point out that apparently this woman had seen many things in the flames, and none of them had proved true, but something in her expression caused him to hold his tongue.

“I can’t speak for the flames,” said Davos, “but he’s gone.”

Melisandre reached out and touched Jon’s cheek. “He doesn’t have to be.”

* * *

Tyrion patted Ghost as the direwolf nuzzled into him, looking for reassurance, before giving up and going to lie under Jon Snow’s body. Edd had left to fetch the direwolf while Melisande was in the room, and when she’d left after making her pronouncement, Edd and Ghost had returned.

“Thorn will have seen we’re not at the meeting,” said Tyrion. “We sent a few of our loyal men to it, but there’s enough of us missing that he’ll know something is up.”

“He’ll have made it official by now,” Davos added. “Castle Black is his.”

“I don’t care who sits at the High Table,” spat Edd as he continued to pace around the room. “Jon was my friend. And those fuckers butchered him. Now we return the favour.”

“We don’t have the men,” cautioned Davos, sounding exhausted. 

“We have a direwolf!”

“Who will not take orders from us,” said Tyrion patiently. 

“How do you know? It’s a dog, like any other! Here, boy, here!” snapped Edd, clicking his fingers and pointing at the floor, trying to summon Ghost to him.

Ghost looked at him, yawned, then put his head down on his paws and closed his eyes. The message was clear, and Tyrion fought back a smile.

“Direwolves aren’t dogs, Edd. I asked Sansa about them, several times. Apparently there were histories at Winterfell which said that direwolves only ever obeyed their masters. Once a direwolf’s master was dead, the direwolf would just...fade away.”

“Even if Ghost did take orders from us, we still wouldn’t have the numbers,” said Davos. “I didn’t know the Lord Commander for long, but I have to believe he wouldn’t have wanted his friends to die for nothing.”

“If you were planning to see tomorrow,” growled Edd, “you picked the wrong room. We all die today! I say we do our best to take Thorne with us when we go.”

“We need to fight,” agreed Davos. “But we don’t need to die. Not if we have help.”

“Who is going to help us?” asked Alberet.

Tyrion saw what Davos was aiming at. “We’re not the only ones who owe our lives to Jon Snow.”

It seemed Edd understood too, because with a flurry of orders to the rest of them he was out the door.

* * *

Tyrion was cold, and stiff, and bloody hungry. There wasn’t much wood left in the room, and soon night would fall. 

A knock at the door had them all jumping, and when Edd’s voice didn’t ring out, Davos slowly approached the door. Tyrion wasn’t sure why the old knight had allied himself with them, but he was glad he had. Tyrion knew he was clever, but Davos...Davos was cunning. It comforted Tyrion to have the older man on their side. The men of the Night’s Watch were loyal, but Tyrion had only really been in one battle, and one massacre. Having an experienced commander with them was soothing his nerves.

As much as his nerves could be soothed, locked into a room with his estranged wife’s dead half-brother.

“Ser Davos!” called Thorne. “We have no cause to fight. We are both anointed knights.” 

Tyrion rolled his eyes, and even Davos saw the humour in the situation. “Hear that lads? Nothing to fear.”

There was muted laughter around the room, but everyone tightened their grip on their swords, just in case. Brightroar caught the fading light in the room and shone, and Davos nodded at Tyrion.

“I will grant amnesty to all Brothers who throw down their arms before nightfall,” continued Thorne. “And you, Ser Davos, I will allow you to travel south, a free man with a fresh horse.”

Thorne would be an idiot to actually let Davos go, Tyrion decided, and from Davos’ response it seemed the old knight figured the same.

“And some mutton!” yelled Davos through the door, sounding almost cheerful. “I’d like some mutton. I’m not much of a hunter, and I’ll need some food if I’m going to make it south without starving. It’s a long road, the road back to the south.”

There was a long pause before Thorne agreed to give Davos food. “You can take the Red Woman with you if you like. Or you can leave her here with us, whatever you chose.”

 _Now that’s a conundrum,_ though Tyrion. _Davos hates the Red Woman, that’s as clear as the nose on his face. Yet to leave her here? At the mercy of Thorne and his thugs? Davos is too honourable to do that. He’s very nearly a Tully in terms of honour, unless I miss my guess._

“But surrender by nightfall,” continued Thorne. “Or this ends with blood.”

“Thank you, Ser Alliser,” said Davos, still sounding cheerful. “We’ll discuss amongst ourselves, and come back to you with an answer.”

As the footsteps outside the door faded away, Davos turned and faced the room.

“It’s a trap,” said Tyrion.

“Aye, that it is,” said Davos with a nod. “Boys, I’ve been dealing with men like that all my life. In my learned opinion, we open that door -”

“And they’ll slaughter us all,” finished Alberet.

“They want to come in,” said Jarack. “They’re gonna come in.”

“Aye,” said Davos again. “But we don’t need to make it easy for ‘em.”

“Edd is our only chance,” said Jarack.

“It’s a sad fucking statement if Dolorous Edd is our only chance,” snarked Alberet, to snorts from the others. Even Davos cracked a grin at that one, before looking thoughtful again.

“There’s always the Red Woman.”

“What’s the use of one red-headed woman?”

* * *

Dolorous Edd and the Free Folk had arrived just in time, and the mutiny was over. They were down to barely twenty men now; more than outnumbered by the Free Folk.

Tormund and his men had built a pyre for the men who had died going up against the Free Folk, and Edd and Davos were having a passionate argument over whether Jon should be burnt as well.

“He’s dead! He’s dead and he’s not coming back!” cried Edd. “I loved him! He was my brother and I loved him, but he’s not coming back. We have to burn his corpse and move on.”

“He could not be dead.”

“It’s been two days!”

“I mean, he’s dead now, but he doesn’t have to stay dead.”

At that, Edd stopped pacing and dropped his hands from his hair. “What’d’ye mean?”

Fervour in his eyes, Davos stepped forward. “The Red Woman. She can bring him back.”

“Back? Like the White Walkers bring people back?”

“No, back properly. She can do all sorts of things. I’ve seen it.”

“Why, Ser Davos?” asked Tyrion, reminding them that he was in the room. Tyrion was sitting on the floor with Ghost’s head in his lap, slowly stroking the beast’s soft fur and scratching behind his ears. “Why do you care so much about our bastard of the Lord Commander? Surely, if Melisandre could do what you claim she can do, shouldn’t you have helped Stannis first?”

Ser Davos threw up his hands. “I don’t know, lad. Maybe I should have, but Stannis was old. Set in his ways. Jon Snow was a young lad, still. There was so much life ahead of him. It seems a shame to see it snuffed so soon. There was something about the lad. Stannis saw something in him, and so did I. So did the Free Folk, and half of ye. We should at least try.”

And so they had decided to try. To try to meddle in things man had no business meddling in.

But perhaps woman did.

* * *

“Your dragons are nearly fully grown,” remarked Sansa as they sat on one of the many balconies that ringed the Great Pyramid, watching Daenerys’ children flying over the city. “They say that Vhagar was five times larger than a war horse, and Drogon is certainly approaching that.”

“Are you that eager to return to Westeros, Virzeth Veri?” asked Daenerys, sipping her wine.

Sansa drained her cup and looked at her queen. “I am eager not to tarry here much longer, your Grace. I have been having...dreams.”

“Dreams? Like the one in which you saw those sent to kill me?”

“Similar, your Grace, but not that clear. I see my brother, Jon Snow, and ravens. So many ravens. I see The Wall, and The Wall falling, and the dead walking again. Sometimes I see it as myself, sometimes as Lyanna, sometimes as Jon, and sometimes as his direwolf. I have seen it over and over and over and it frightens me, Khaleesi. I do not think we should tarry overlong here in Meereen.”

Sansa was pale and shivering in the warm sunlight, and Daenerys reached out a gentle hand to rub her back.

“I have been thinking,” mused Daenerys as her hand moved in slow circles over Sansa’s back. “I do not want to stay in Meereen for the rest of my life. Which means that eventually, someone else is going to need to rule Meereen.”

“Who? Most of the Great Masters are now dead.”

“Most of the Great Masters were slave traders, murderers, and rapists — or employed slave traders, murderers, and rapists. They are not the ones I would have sit on the throne of Meereen,” said Daenerys. “I have been thinking instead of installing a council of women. Men have done such a foolish job of running this city. Perhaps women will do a better job.”

“Just because we are women doesn’t mean we can be any less cruel, or any less bloodthirsty. You and I are proof enough of that.”

“Still, we don’t have cocks do do our thinking for us. This will be marked improvement over the others who have ruled Meereen.”

Sansa grinned at Daenerys’ crude comment and poured them both more wine. “How many do you think should sit on the council?”

“I was thinking three. A poor woman, a rich woman, and a priestess.”

“The Graces have not served this city well, your Grace. They have proved too easily swayed by gold, no matter the colour of robes they wear.”

“But the Red Priests have served us well, helping sway the common people of Meereen to our cause.” Privately, Sansa wasn’t sure she approved of Daenerys’ decision to ally with the priests and priestesses of R’hllor, but even she could admit that their preaching had helped Daenerys’ popularity. It was hard for those who worshipped a fiery god not to take heart from the presence of the Mother of Dragons. “I suggest appointing one of them, at least until the Graces are able to bring stability to their order.”

“If I may, your Grace...I would recommend five on your council. Two young, two old; two rich, two poor, and with a priestess as the deciding vote. Will they rule for life?”

“They are not queens. The Triarchs of Volantis rule for only a year. That is too short, I think.” 

“Perhaps seven years? One for each of the gods?”

Daenerys slanted a look at Sansa. “You know the Seven has little sway here in Essos. Neither the Red Priestesses nor the Graces will welcome such a reason.”

“Why give a reason?” asked Sansa with a toss of her hair. “You and I can know it is a way to honour the Seven, but to the Meereenese, it will just be the length of time their council sits.”

“And how should we find these council members?”

“I have some ideas, your Grace.”

“I just informed you of this not five minutes ago, Virzeth Veri, and you already have ideas?”

Sansa refilled her wine and smiled. “I’m your spymaster, khaleesi. I always have ideas.”

* * *

In the end, it was Tyrion who went to speak to Melisandre. Edd flatly refused to, saying the woman gave him the creeps, and Davos’ dislike of the Red Priestess was well known.

“My Lady.”

“Lord Lannister.”

“Not any more, my Lady. I’m Tyrion Hill now.”

“You have always been Tyrion Lannister, and you always will be,” Melisande said with finality in her voice. “I might not always understand what the flames tell me, but I understand this.”

Sensing that she wanted to speak, Tyrion slowly moved through the room and took a seat beside her. They sat, staring into the flames, lost in thought. 

Eventually, the fire started to die down, and Tyrion moved forward to add another log. Stoke the flames up.

“Do you know what fire does, Tyrion Lannister?” asked Melisande, her eyes seeing something distant.

“It burns, my Lady. It gives light and warmth.”

“It shows the truth. Fire brings us to our most basic, our most honest selves. Fire cleanses. You are good at stoking the flames.”

Somehow, Tyrion didn’t think she was just talking about the fire he was still prodding with the poker.

“Even now, fire burns for you. It is very far away, but it burns for you.” Melisande looked at him, her eyes clear and reflecting the flames. “When I see you kneeling before the fire, I see what the fire has in store for you. You cast a large shadow, for one so small. A long shadow and a great warmth. Kindness and strength, hidden deep where only the fire can see it. I see you, Tyrion Lannister, and you are glorious.”

But then her gaze shuttered, as if water had been thrown over the fire. “But I doubt what I see, now. After everything...everything I believed, everything I saw in the flames, pointed to a great victory. To Stannis ruling the Seven Kingdoms, to him being The Prince That Was Promised. And it was all a lie.”

“It wasn’t all a lie,” said Tyrion softly. “I’ve seen some of the things you do; the power that you wield. I’ve heard tale of many other things besides.”

“Tales can be exaggerated.”

“Ser Davos is hardly one to exaggerate. Not about something like this. He claims you gave birth to a shadow demon. That you survived drinking poison that should have slain you. That did slay others.”

“Tricks,” she murmured. “Just tricks, nothing more.”

“Tricks or not, he believes in you. In your power. He may not like you, but he thinks you can do something to help.”

“To help?”

“To help the Lord Commander.”

“The Former Lord Commander. The light has left his eyes.”

“And you can bring it back.”

Melisande continued to stare past him, into the flames. “Why? Why do you ask this of me?”

“So it can be done.”

“I did not say that, Tyrion Lannister. I asked you why you want this to happen. The Lord Commander has gone on. He had not led an easy life, that one. He is at peace now. Why do you want me to bring him back?”

“Have you been past The Wall, my Lady?”

Silently, she shook her head.

“I have been. I have seen what is out there, what is coming for us. I have often joked, my Lady, that there are two things I do: I drink, and I know things. And I know that when the White Walkers come for us, we need Jon Snow on our side. I know it as certainly as I know that snow is white, that the sky is blue, and that my mother’s blood runs through my veins. We need Jon Snow with us in the wars to come. Look into your fire, and tell me you don’t see the same.”

She stared at the fire for so long that Tyrion had to once again stoke the flames to life. 

“Jon Snow is not The Prince Who Was Promised,” she said at last, her voice sounding as if she was very far away. “But he will aid the one who is. I see it, at last. I see what will happen, how it will happen. I see The Prince Who Was Promised, and Lightbringer, and the end of the Long Night. I see the Red Wolf, and I see your long shadow.”

Melisande blinked, and her gaze sharpened as she looked at Tyrion anew. “I see _dragons_.”

She stood and swept from the room.

“Come, Tyrion Lannister. There is work to do.”


	13. Ravens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even from across the courtyard, Tyrion could make out the distinctive shape of Brienne of Tarth riding slowly into the castle, trailed by Pod and…
> 
> “Sansa?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue from S06E03 ‘Oathbreaker’ and S07E03 ‘The Queen’s Justice’. 
> 
> Note that the events on The Wall and the events in Meereen aren’t exactly happening over the same time. The stuff at The Wall is over the course of a day, while in Meereen it’s over several weeks. Mostly because at the moment the events at the two places are just happening on different scales. Just...don’t think too much about it. I’m fairly sure time wasn’t happening consistently by the end of Season 7 in the show anyway.

“They put a knife in my heart. I shouldn’t be here. How am I alive?” croaked Jon Snow as he huddled into the cloak Davos had given him. Tyrion handed the boy his flask, and Jon took a long drink from it.

They all paused, watching to see if the water would come out of Jon’s wounds. Or at least, that’s what Tyrion was waiting to see. But the water stayed inside Jon’s body, and Melissande crouched at his feet and took his hands.

“The Lord of Light brought you back. My lord, what did you see?”

“See? I saw the knives!”

“Afterwards. After they stabbed you, after you died. Where did you go? What did you see?”

Jon just shook his head. “Nothing. There was nothing at all.”

Melissande looked crushed, and Tyrion stepped forward to help her up. “Thank you, my lady, but I think that’s enough for now.”

“Yes,” she said faintly as she allowed Tyrion to usher her out of the room. “It is hard to come back like that.”

He closed the door behind her, and went to find Jon some pants.

* * *

“Virzeth Veri!” Sansa turned from the platter of lemon cakes at the friendly voice hailing her. While Daenerys was dressed in a tokar of sheer white linen with a fringe of golden tassels that made the Dragon Queen seem even more regal than she usually did, Sansa did not want to be burdened by the restrictive outfit. Instead, she’d constructed something that largely looked like a fashionable gown (or well, what was in fashion when she’d left King’s Landing), but was actually cunningly disguised pants for ease of movement. Her outfit was grey, with snarling direwolves worked onto it with jet beading, and Sansa knew she looked elegant and beautiful. If she had several knives hidden around her outfit, well, it wouldn’t do for Virzeth Veri to be without teach.

She wasn’t the best with knives, but she wasn’t going to leave her Queen unprotected, even with the knights also at the party and the Unsullied and Dothraki standing guard outside.

It turned out you could get neither Unsullied nor Dothraki to attend parties. Sansa wondered why, because she loved parties. It had been so long since she’d been to one in Braavos and she was thrilled that Daenerys had had the idea to throw this one. When Ser Jorah had questioned whether throwing a party was really a sensible idea given the recent unrest in the city, Daenerys had pertly responded that she was the Queen, and if she felt like throwing a party, Ser Jorah should hurry up and polish his armour for it lest she decide he was to be the entertainment.

Sansa was amused to note that Ser Jorah’s armour was indeed very shiny tonight. And it looked like the man had washed, and made an effort to tidy up his hair. She was reluctantly impressed.

She just wished there was more dancing, but given that Meereen, Westeros and Braavos all had different ideas of what was considered appropriate at a party (and Meereen was firmly of the ‘no dancing’ opinion), she’d take what she could.

And what she could take was as many lemon cakes as she could get away with.

Paneshi Zaqan was coming towards her, wearing a purple tokar with an amethyst and pearl fringe that set off Paneshi’s dark complexion beautifully. Sansa smiled to see the young woman — she was one of the candidates for Daenerys’ council, and Sansa had enjoyed the interviews she’d had with Paneshi. The Meereenese woman had very strong ideas on justice and education, and although these did not align perfectly with Daenerys’ (or Sansa’s), the Westerosi women appreciated with how Paneshi was able to argue and debate her points. She was one of Sansa’s favourite candidates to take a seat on the council, and so Sansa had assigned her best little birds to trailing her. So far, they had turned up nothing untoward, which pleased Sansa. She liked it when her instincts about people were right.

Paneshi was dragging along a young man by his arm, and given their similarity in colouring Sansa immediately pegged him as Paneshi’s brother. Or perhaps cousin.

“Virzeth Veri, please meet my brother, Arnaq mo Zaqan. Arnaq, this is Lady Sansa Lannister, the Queen’s Virzeth Veri.”

Sansa swept into a neat curtsey, privately thrilled at how nicely her skirts moved, and Arnaq bowed in return.

“My lady,” he greeted her, his voice a pleasant tenor. “Valar morghulis.”

“Valar dohaeris,” responded Sansa. “How are you enjoying the party, Lord Zaqan?”

“Very well, my lady, but I am no lord. I am just a simple trader. Please, call me Arnaq.”

“No man earns a ‘mo’ in his name by being only a simple trader, mo Zaqan.”

Arnaq smiled, and Sansa couldn’t help but smile in return. Arnaq was handsome, and his eyes seemed kind.

“Perhaps not so simple then, no.”

“And what do you trade, mo Zaqan?” _Please don’t say slave, please don’t say slaves,_ Sansa thought.

“Books, my lady. I have the largest library in the city.”

“Library? Surely, if you were a trader, you would have the largest book store.”

“That too!” Arnaq grinned. “But you see, of every book I trade, I make sure I keep a copy. Or if one cannot be kept, I make a copy. I suspect I must have nearly every book ever written.”

His smile was infectious, but Sansa felt melancholy. _I bet there is one book you don’t have a copy of._ She wondered what had happened to the book she’d created for Tyrion.

She hoped it still existed.

“Your library sounds wonderful, mo Zaqan. I would like to see it one day.”

“I would offer to take you there now, but I fear it is too early to leave such a wonderful party.”

Sansa smiled. “I certainly think so. Are you having an enjoyable time?”

He stepped closer and offered her the platter of lemon cakes. “I am now.”

* * *

The wildlings and the watchmen stood and stared as Jon descended the stairs into the courtyard, Davos hovering over him. Tyrion remained standing high on the walkway, watching the crowd. The wildlings looked discomforted. Jon’s allies wondering, yet pleased.

The traitors looked horrified, and Tyrion gave the signal for the gates of Castle Black to be shut. There would be no mercy for those who had killed their Lord Commander and tried to overthrow the Castle. Tyrion would see to it, if he had to kill them himself.

_It is a sad day when the Imp of Lannister has better morals than a bunch of Black Brothers,_ he thought as he watched Jon be greeted by first Tormund and then Edd. _I suspect I have spent too much time in the company of honourable people. Perhaps I should sneak away to Mole’s Town one night. See if I can have a good old-fashioned orgy._ Even as he thought it, Sansa’s face flashed before his eyes, and Tyrion knew that he wanted no woman other than her.

As the traitors were bound and taken to the cells, the horn sounded from atop The Wall. Everyone in the courtyard froze, even the bound traitors, listening for the second and third blast that would signal the Others had made their move and were attacking, for surely there was no one else left north of The Wall.

_Five traitors out of fifty men. That’s a tenth of our fighting force,_ Tyrion realised. _Maybe we should release them to fight for us — to work off their punishment through grunt work. Though if it’s the White Walkers, another five men are hardly going to make a difference…_

When no other horn blows sounded, the tension eased out of the courtyard, though Tyrion could see that Jon was as interested as he was. _Who in the Seven Hells is coming from north of The Wall? A lost ranger?_.

Tyrion joined Jon in standing beside one of the braziers in the courtyard, waiting to see what was coming through the tunnel. Edd had taken a few trusted men and gone down the tunnel to meet whoever was on the other side. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Tormund and Karsi step up to warm their hands as well, while Ser Davos climbed up the stairs to the south-facing gate of Castle Black so as to provide support from the rear.

The conversation was mild — Tormund was teasing Karsi about taking a Southerner as a lover (and wasn’t that weird, to hear the people Tyrion had always considered hard Northerners be dismissed as soft Southerners), while Karsi was mocking Tormund, pointing out that there were no bear-women here in the South for him to seduce to his furs.

After what seemed like an eternity, Tyrion spotted the light of torches coming down the tunnel. He flexed his hands, warm from the fire, and hoped he wouldn’t need to draw Brightroar in battle again. Once was more than enough.

* * *

“Lady Sansa!”

“Lord Arnaq,” greeted Sansa with a smile as the attractive trader trotted up beside her as she strolled through the orangery on top of a small pyramid. Part of her plan to help Meereen have more stability involved encouraging the growing of more food inside the city using the flat steps down the pyramids. This orangery was being established on top of one of the small pyramids they had seized to use as a healing house, using the logic that as oranges were well known to keep illness away, perhaps the sight and scent of them growing would help the sick recover.

Also, Sansa knew she always felt better when she was sick if she could look over a beautiful garden and see green growing things. She’d always loved the Glass Gardens at Winterfell, because not only were they warm, they were full of new life and growth. It was reassuring when one felt they were going to expire if they sneezed one more time.

“Please, my lady, it is just Arnaq.”

“As you say, Lord Arnaq,” demurred Sansa, dipping her head so that the bells in her hair jingled slightly. Arnaq got the message and bowed, the discussion over names shelved once again.

“I am glad to see you, my lady. I got the book you were interested in.”

“Which one, my lord? We have spoken of so many!”

“Maester Armond’s Habits and Lineages of Direwolves.”

Sansa’s nose crinkled in puzzlement. “I am fairly sure we have never spoken of that book, my lord. I didn’t even know it existed until now.”

To her amusement, Arnaq blushed. “My lady, your mind is as brilliant as you are beautiful. You are correct, we have not discussed this book, but I wanted to get it for you. As a present. I know you are devoted to your direwolf,” Lyanna seemed to know they were talking about her and yipped as she ran past, tumbling after a butterfly, “and I wanted to get you something that reflected that. And I can think of no better gift than a book.”

“But a book about direwolves? I didn’t know there was such a thing! They hadn’t been seen in the Seven Kingdoms for over two hundred years before my siblings and I found ours.”

“It is a very old book, my lady,” grinned Arnaq. “Very old, and very rare.”

“Since you went to such lengths to find it, I suppose I should have to view it, shouldn’t I?” asked Sansa, pretending to be distressed by the idea of spending the afternoon in the company of a rare book and a handsome man.

“I must insist, Lady Sansa,” said Arnaq, proffering his hand with a flourishing bow. “And perhaps, once you have read your fill, we could dine together? A new Pentoshi eating house has opened in the city which my sister reports is very fine.”

Charmed, Sansa dipped a curtsey as she took Arnaq’s hand. “I would be delighted to, my lord.”

* * *

Edd led the way out of the tunnel, and his face was...doing something. Tyrion couldn’t read his expression, but he wasn’t hurried or fearful and Tyrion found himself relaxing. They watched as a young wildling woman emerged from the tunnel, followed by two the Black Brothers pulling a sled. On the sled there was another wildling, a young man, in furs.

As they came closer, Tyrion looked again. They were dressed as wildlings, and they came from North of The Wall, but there was something about their features that marked them as different from wildlings. Particularly the man. He didn’t look much like the wildling men that Tyrion knew, he was too slight and hairless. In fact, if Tyrion had to describe him, he’d say that the young man almost looked like Jon Snow.

Apparently Jon recognised the boy, as he stepped forward as if in a trance. “Bran?”

The young man — Bran — had been looking around the Castle courtyard with detached interest, and now his gaze sharpened on the Lord Commander.

“Hullo Jon. I need to speak to you.”

Anything else Bran was going to say was cut off as Jon knelt by the sled and pulled his brother into a hug.

Wanting to give the siblings some privacy, Tyrion turned his attention to the young woman. “Welcome to Castle Black, Lady…?”

“Reed. Lady Meera Reed, daughter of Howland Reed.”

“I am Tyrion Hill, formerly Tyrion Lannister.”

She nodded. “I guessed as much, my Lord. I did not think to find you here.”

“None of us thought to find you here either, my lady, nor in the company of Brandon Stark, so I think that makes us even.”

Meera broke into a smile, and Tyrion could see the stress the young woman carrying start to fall away as she realised she was safe in Castle Black. Safe, and surrounded by friends, and no longer responsible for dragging a crippled man through the wilds of the North (at least, Tyrion supposed that’s how they’d gotten to The Wall, given the comfort with which the young Stark was inhabiting the sled).

“I imagine there is a quite a story in how you and young Lord Stark came to be north of The Wall, but that is a story that can wait until you have had a chance to warm up and eat something.”

Tyrion could almost hear the woman’s stomach start to rumble. “That would be wonderful, thank you my lord. It has been a long few years, most of them very cold, very hungry, and very scared.”

At that point, Karsi stepped forward. “I have some clothes that may fit you, girl, if you’d like to come with me? Me and some of the other spearwives claimed one of the hot pools here as our own, so you can have a decent wash away from the menfolk. Crows and Free Folk alike.”

Meera nodded and moved towards Karsi, but then turned back to Tyrion. “My lord, if you have a raven to spare, could you please send one to my father? Howland Reed, Greywater Watch. Please let him know I am coming home soon, but that Jojen paid the Companion’s Price.”

“Raven’s can’t find Greywater Watch, my lady. They’ve never been able to.”

Meera looked over her shoulder to where Jon was detangling himself from Brandon. “Show the raven to himself over there. He’ll make sure it finds my father.”

* * *

“Your Grace, it’s just a cold. I’ll be fine.” Sansa’s calm statement was punctured with a sneeze at the end of it, and she shook her head to try and get some of the fuzzy feeling out of it.

Daenerys was clearly fretting, even as the attendant Blue Grace tried to hide a smile. “Are you sure it’s just a cold? That it’s nothing more serious, like dragonpox, or a bloody flux, or…”

“It is a cold, your Grace,” interrupted the Grace firmly. “A few days rest, plenty of fluids, and light, healthy food whenever Virzeth Veri feels hungry. Toast with honey, for example, and oranges. She will be back on her feet before you know it, your Grace. This I promise you.”

The Blue Grace bowed and left before Daenerys could question her more, and Sansa settled back on her pillows, Lyanna curled up beside her hip. Sansa eyed her direwolf warily. Lyanna seemed to be growing much faster than Lady ever had, and there would soon come a time when they wouldn’t both be able to fit on the bed. Sansa had a sneaking suspicion that if it came to it, she’d be the one who had to find another place to sleep.

But that was a matter for a later day. Today she had to calm a worrying Queen.

“Your Grace, really, I’ll be fine. It’s just a cold. You know it will pass.”

“I don’t know that.”

“Pardon?”

“I’ve never had a cold before. Never even been sick. The only times I’ve ever sneezed or coughed have been because of dust.”

“Really? Never?”

“Never. Illness cannot hurt a dragon. But it’s taken several people I was close to, such as Ser Willem.”

“Ser Willem?”

“He was a loyal retainer of my father’s, who helped smuggle Viserys and I from Dragonstone. We lived in Braavos together, in a house with a red door.”

“You know,” said Sansa thoughtfully, “I’ve never actually heard the entire story about how you escaped from Dragonstone and came to be married to Khal Drogo.”

“You haven’t?”

“I’ve heard bits and pieces, but never the whole thing from someone who was there the entire time. Would you tell me, please? It is tradition, your Grace, to keep the sick company and tell them stories until they fall asleep.”

“Well, if it’s tradition…”

“It is,” said Sansa, snuggling down into her blankets. 

Daenerys paused, trying to find the words, before beginning her story. “The night I was born, the worst storm in living memory struck Dragonstone…”

* * *

“I can never be lord of anything. I’m the Three Eyed Raven.” Bran’s voice was utterly flat, and it was giving Tyrion the willies.

Also, it was highly likely the boy was utterly insane, given how Bran had just declared himself to be a bird. 

“I don’t know what that means,” said Jon softly. He was speaking as if his brother was a wild dog, liable to bite at any second, and Tyrion knew that Jon also thought his brother was mad.

Huh. The boy was Tyrion’s brother by marriage, come to think of it. Even mad, he was probably an improvement on Robert Baratheon (may the Gods rest his soul). 

“It’s difficult to explain. I can see everything. Everything that’s ever happened. To everyone. Everything that’s happening right now. It’s all in pieces, fragments. I need to learn to see better.”

Meera shifted beside Tyrion, reaching across him for a flagon of ale. “He’s been like this for month, all inscrutable-like. Can’t get a solid answer out of him when you ask him a question, instead it’s all doom and potents.”

Tyrion moved the amphora with more ale in it closer to the woman. She’d dragged a raving mad boy across the Wilds, dodging White Walkers and wights and a host of other difficulties. If Meera Reed wanted to drink until Bran started making sense, then Tyrion figured she had the right of it.

“When the Long Night comes again, I need to be ready. We all need to be ready.” Bran turned and looked directly at Jon. “You need to be at Winterfell.”

Jon sighed. “I can’t be at Winterfell. I’m the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. My place is here. Anyway, how do you know all this?”

“The Three Eyed Raven taught me.”

“Aren’t you the Three Eyed Raven?” asked Tyrion.

“I told you. It’s difficult to explain.”

“Not so difficult,” argued Meera. “Far north of The Wall there were some surviving Children of the Forest. Weird things, them, and that’s from someone who grew up on The Neck. My brother was a greenseer, and he led us to a cavern with a weirwood tree above it. The cavern was guarded by the Children of the Forest and was the home to the Three Eyed Raven — an old greenseer who the weirwood root’s had grown through. Yet somehow, he was still alive. Honestly, after we got attacked by living skeletons that killed my brother, the old man with roots growing through him was definitely the creepiest part.”

“You saw the Children of the Forest? They’re still alive?” asked Jon, wonder tinting his voice.

“That lot isn’t anymore. They died helping his Raven-ness over there escape after he brought the Night King down upon us.”

“The Night King?” asked Tyrion.

“White Walker with a crown of ice thorns around his head? Powerful bugger,” muttered Meera as she helped herself to more ale. 

Slight concerned, Tyrion also pushed a loaf of bread in her direction. When Meera rolled her eyes at him, Tyrion just smiled politely.

And pushed the bread closer.

“I’ve seen that one,” said Jon. “At Hardhome. The Night King.” 

“Then you’ll understand how pleased we were to escape him. Anyway, the old man and the Children died helping us escape, as did Summer, as did Hodor, and Bran became the new Three Eyed Raven.”

“I remember what it felt like to be Brandon Stark. But I remember so much else now,” said Bran, mostly to himself.

Meera reached for the ale again. “And now you see what I’ve dealt with for far too long.” Discovering that her ale was empty, she shrugged and started to pull the bread apart. “Now that he’s here, now that he’s as safe as he can be with the Dead marching upon The Wall, I want to go home. I want to see my family. I need to be with them when it happens.”

Tyrion nodded. “We’ll send a raven in the morning. It’s late now. We would all benefit from some sleep.”

“Come, Meera. There is room in my chamber for you to rest,” said Karsi, moving to help Meera to her feet.

“You will send the raven, won’t you?” Meera asked, sounding very young for all she’d lived through.

“I will, my Lady. And we will help you gather as many provisions as you need to make it home too.”

“When you send the raven,” said Bran, a distant look in his eyes, “send one to Lord Umber too. Tell him that Shaggydog’s friend has come home. It may be enough to stop him doing something foolish.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tyrion saw Jon stiffen, uncertain hope spreading across his face.

* * *

The next morning, Tyrion carefully walked across the ice-covered planks towards Jon’s rooms, carrying two ravens in cages. Jon had asked them all to meet again that morning — Bran, Meera, Tyrion, Tormund, Karsi and Davos — to continue last night’s discussion. Tyrion supposed Jon wanted to pick Bran’s mind to see what he knew about the White Walkers, and how to beat them. If the boy could see the past and the present, it stood to reason that he could also see the future. At least, that was Tyrion’s guess.

He nodded at Tormund as the wilding fell into step beside him.

“What do you make of it?” asked Tyrion. “Three Eyed Ravens and Children of the Forest and all that?”

Tormund hummed. “Within the Haunted Forest, east of the Fist of the First Men,and somewhat near the headwaters of the Antler River there’s a giant weirwood tree. It’s atop a hillock, and there is a cavern below it. It’s always warm near that tree, yet the lake in front of it is always frozen. You can’t keep a fire lit beneath it, but no one has ever died of the cold from staying there overnight. Lost children are sometimes found there, often with stories about grey-skinned girls not much taller than them.” Tormund looked thoughtful, and chewed on his lip. “I’m inclined to believe the boy, mad as he is.”

A loud knocking from the gate of Castle Black startled Tyrion before he could respond, and he nearly lost his footing. Tormund managed to grab him and the raven cage, keeping them all upright. 

The guards hailed those who sought entrance, and satisfied which what they heard, they opened the gates.

The sound of the knocking had carried far in the still morning air, and many black brothers and Free Folk were leaning out of doors and windows, curious as to who had arrived at Castle Black before the sun had fully cleared the horizon.

Therefore, there were many witnesses as the gates creaked open to admit three people on horseback.

Even from his vantage point across the courtyard, Tyrion could make out the distinctive shape of Brienne of Tarth riding slowly into the castle, trailed by Pod and…

“Sansa?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #MeeraDeservedBetter


	14. In From The Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We have to win the North back so Sansa can come home. Which means convincing the houses of the North that there still is a Stark in the game, still a Stark they can back, and if I have to use Bran’s blood, your face, and Jon’s sword to do it so my wife can come home then that’s fucking well what I’m going to do!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue from: S05E05 ‘Kill the Boy’, S06E03 ‘Oathbreaker’ and S07E06 ‘Beyond The Wall’.

It wasn’t Sansa. Even as he rushed down the stairs, nearly tripping and falling on his face, he could see it wasn’t her. It looked a lot like Sansa, but it wasn’t Sansa. There was something about the way the woman was sitting on a horse. As if she was in pain, and scared. Sansa would never let herself look like that, not after what she’d been through. His wife had turned from porcelain to ivory to steel, at least in public. 

There was also the way the woman looked at Pod before dismounting and moving towards Jon Snow. Sansa wouldn’t seek reassurance from Pod, and certainly not over reuniting with her brother.

The woman stumbled on the uneven ground of the courtyard, and Jon swept her up into his arms. “Sansa?”

Tyrion reached them as the woman in Jon’s arms burst into tears, tucking her face into the Lord Commander’s shoulder as he tried to calm her. Tyrion could barely see her face, but what he could see told him enough. This wasn’t his wife. He looked at Brienne, who seemed pleased to see the ‘siblings’ reunite. 

And he looked at Pod, who looked more worried than Tyrion had ever seen the boy. When he saw Tyrion looking at him, Pod’s gaze turned pleading. _Pod knows who she is. Pod is trying to pass her off as Sansa to Sansa’s own brother. Who could it — oh._

It was Aly. It had to be Aly.

“Come, let us get her inside. She will be cold, and hungry, Lord Commander.”

Jon snapped his head up and glared at Tyrion. “If you think I’m leaving my sister with you —”

“Let us all go together. I have a feeling this is a story that should only be told once, and your brother will want to see her.”

Tyrion’s suspicions were correct when Aly didn’t react at the news that another Stark was in the Castle — though he did wonder why Bran hadn’t told them to expect her. Perhaps the Three Eyed Raven couldn’t see the future after all.

Or he just didn’t think Aly was worth mentioning.

Carefully, Tyrion led Jon and Aly from the courtyard. Brienne and Pod dismounted to follow them and Tyrion nodded at Davos, Edd, and Tormund. They’d want to hear this too. Meera and Karsi followed, and Tyrion couldn’t blame them. Meera would understand the implications of ‘Sansa Stark’ being at Castle Black, not Winterfell, even if Karsi wouldn’t. And if events were going where Tyrion thought they were, they’d need all the allies they could get.

* * *

“I was her handmaiden,” said Aly. “Lady Sansa knew something was going to happen to the King and she saw this as her opportunity to escape King’s Landing. Since we look so similar, she came up with the idea for me to take her place.”

“How did she know something was going to happen to the King?” asked Jon. Tyrion figured it was probably safer if he stayed quiet at this point. He wasn’t sure he could ask Aly any questions without screaming.

“She was given a necklace, and it...scared her. There was something about it that was wrong. She didn’t tell me, but she did forbid me to touch it. She spent a lot of time with Lord Varys after that, and then came to me with a plan.”

“So you were to go with Littlefinger and she went...where?”

“Braavos, my Lord.”

“Braavos?”

Aly shrugged. “She’d become close with her dancing master from there.”

Tyrion closed his eyes in pain. So that’s who Sansa had been having an affair with, not Bronn. Her Braavosi dancing master.

Aly’s shook her head at Tyrion. “No, my Lord. It wasn’t like that. From what I could tell, Inigo’s interests were in men, not women. They were friends, nothing more.”

“Why?” he croaked. “Why...why did she leave me? Why didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t she ask me to go with her?”

“I think she meant to, m’Lord,” said Pod, speaking for the first time since the reveal that Aly wasn’t Sansa (Brienne of Tarth had been furious at the boy and it was only Jon calling for calm and an explanation that had prevented the Maid of Tarth from running her erstwhile squire through there and then). “The night before the King’s wedding, when I interrupted you two in your office...she said somewhat to me afterwards that made me realise she was trying to say goodbye, or something.”

Aly nodded. “It was true. She was upset when she returned to her chambers that night, muttering something about ‘hoping it would be different’ and ‘stupid Lannister pride’.”

Tyrion thought back to that night (which, to be fair, he’d revisited in his mind several times already, though for other reasons) and saw its events in a new light.

“So my sister left for Braavos, and you took her place,” said Jon. “Have you heard from her since?”

Tyrion noticed that Bran was staring into the fire, not paying attention at all. Apparently the story bored the Three Eyed Raven.

“No, and I haven’t really tried. Only Littlefinger knew I wasn’t Sansa. To everyone else, I had to pretend. And there was no reason for ‘Sansa Stark’ to try and contact Braavos. She had bigger things to worry about.”

“Like what?”

“Like getting to know her cousin, and her aunt. And then...Ramsay.”

“Ramsay Snow?”

“Bolton now. His father legitimised him, and then Ramsay killed him. Took his place as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, with ‘Sansa Stark’ as his bride lending legitimacy to his rule.” Aly turned even whiter and began to shake. “He is evil, my Lords. Evil, evil, evil.”

“What did he do that was so bad?” asked Jon.

“He...he…” Aly began to weep, and Pod stepped in and rested a hand on her shoulder, concern clear on his face. “He killed my baby. He raped me, over and over again, and I took with child. When it was a girl, not a boy, he pulled us from the birthing room and fed her to the dogs and told me we would start again. And again. And again. Over and over and over until I learned that girls would be fed to the dogs and only boys would be allowed to live. He took my baby. Why did he take my baby? She didn’t do anything wrong, she was just a baby! Not even a day old! Why did he take my baby?”

Pod pulled Aly into a hug and the room was silent save for her weeping. Tyrion tore his eyes away from them, to give Aly some privacy, and looked around the room. Everyone looked sick, particularly Karsi and Jon. 

Tyrion hated what Aly had gone through, but a part of him was fiercely glad Sansa had been spared that.

“I am sorry that happened to you in our home,” said Bran. Apparently he had been paying attention after all. “Your child will be avenged.”

“How?” asked Jon. “What do you see?”

“You. As Lord of Winterfell.”

“I can’t be the Lord of Winterfell. I’m the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“Are you?” Bran asked. “Your oath was until death. You died.”

“How the fuck did you know that? Who told you?” roared Tormund. Jon’s resurrection was known only to the Free Folk and the Black Brothers — two groups hardly known for sharing information with outsiders.

“I am the Three Eyed Raven,” said Bran. “I see everything.”

“Yeah, well, see this,” muttered Tormund, making a rude gesture.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tyrion saw Brienne hide a smile.

* * *

Tyrion watched as Jon took the last words of the condemned men, then drew his sword and cut the rope, hanging the four traitors — including Olly, his former squire.

Jon had asked Bran if he should spare the boy. “I know the men have to hang. They are adults, they made their choices. But Olly? He’s so young. Surely he could change, could redeem himself?”

Bran had shook his head. “Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born.”

Jon had gone white and immediately changed the subject. Though it seemed that he’d taken his brother’s advice, because there Olly was, dying with the rest of them. 

When the bodies were still, Jon turned and approached Edd. He pulled off his cloak of office and handed it to his friend, before casting his voice across the courtyard: “I, Jon Snow, died in the service of the Night’s Watch. My oath has been fulfilled, and my watch is ended. Eddison Tollett, Castle Black is yours.”

Jon walked off towards the rooms Aly and her party had been assigned and, after a few moments of staring after them, Edd seemed to shake himself and started giving orders for the bodies to be lowered, stripped, and burned. Tyrion was interested to see both wildlings and Black Brothers following the orders and working together — maybe, if farming wasn’t to their interest, some of the wildlings might want to take the black. The Night’s Watch could certainly use the numbers.

Then again, was there even a use for the Night’s Watch anymore? The wildlings had come south, and all that was left north of The Wall was the marching dead. The Night’s Watch wasn’t enough to stop them. For that, they’d need all of Westeros.

And from the raven Ramsay Bolton had sent a few days ago demanding his bride be returned to him, Tyrion guessed that the first part of seeking the aid of all of Westeros was taking back the North. Because there was no way Jon would ask Ramsay for help, and there was no way that Ramsay would give it. There seemed to be no way forward but war.

* * *

Sansa sighed and turned over. She was bored. Her cold was finally starting to lift — she could occasionally breathe through both nostrils again, which was a thrilling improvement — but she was still stuck in bed.

And while her friends had been very attentive, with even Arnaq and Paneshi coming for visits, in the end, they had things to do. Bookshops to run. Cities to run. Council meetings to have.

Council meetings Sansa was forbidden from attending until she could walk the length of the corridor outside without coughing, sneezing, or sniffing.

She was utterly sick of the view of her walls. And the view from her window, where she would sometimes sit. 

Lyanna looked up at Sansa from where she was lying beside her, and whined.

“I know, girl. I’m bored too. At least you don’t have to stay here. You can explore, if you want to. You aren’t sick.”

Lyanna huffed and tucked her head under Sansa’s hand, clearly demanding more pets.

Sansa chuckled, which turned to coughing, and once she could breathe again she dutifully patted Lyanna, enjoying the feeling of her silky fur and soft ears.

“You can explore…” said Sansa again, thinking back to the night when the Faceless Men had come for Daenerys. Somehow, Sansa had seen the events through the eyes of Lyanna. 

Would she be able to do it again, without Daenerys’ life being in danger? 

“Lyanna? Brave heart? Do you remember when you saved Daenerys’ life? How I was...with you, somehow?”

Lyanna wuffed. 

Sansa felt a bit silly talking to her direwolf, but she felt like Lyanna could understand everything she said. Sometimes, it felt like Lyanna was trying to talk to her as well, but it was as if she was standing on one side of a wall, trying to make out a muffled conversation on the other side.

“Do you think we could try it again?”

Lyanna shuffled forward and licked Sansa from chin to forehead, making Sansa giggle.

“I’m going to take that as a yes. I have no idea how to actually do this, though…”

Lyanna sat in front of her, and Sansa absentmindedly stroked her head as she looked into Lyanna’s blue eyes, and thought about how it would feel like to see the world as a wolf. To remember how it had felt to walk the halls as Lyanna.

Sansa stared into Lyanna’s eyes, lost in thought, and between one breath and another, was staring at herself.

* * *

The mistress was back! This wolf was very excited. This wolf could walk so much better this time! They could show the mistress all sorts of lovely things, and smell all sorts of lovely smells…and maybe this wolf could go and play with the fire things now! This wolf hadn’t worked out how to open the gates that led to where the fire things slept, but the mistress was clever. The mistress could help.

This wolf bounded off the bed in excitement, only to feel the mistress leave when this wolf hit the ground.

_Huff_.

This wolf sat down, looking at the mistress, who suggested trying it again. This time, this wolf waited until the mistress felt more … steady before moving around, slowly at first.

The mistress was very impressed with all the smells this wolf could smell, although she was less impressed with this wolf’s love of the chamber pot.

After a few laps of the room, this wolf felt the mistress was ready to head outside the room. This wolf eased the door open, and poked their nose out. There were two guards there. They would help keep the mistress’ body safe while this wolf took her to explore.

Pleased with how things were going, this wolf headed down the corridor at a trot, their tail waving in excitement. This was going to be fun!

* * *

“We can’t defend against both the dead from the north and the Boltons from the south. Not from here, not from what’s left of the Watch. If we want to survive, we have to take Winterfell. And to take Winterfell, we need more men.”

“Aside from the Starks and the Boltons, the most powerful houses in the North are the Umbers, the Karstarks, and the Manderlays,” said Davos, getting to his feet. “The Umbers and the Karstarks have already declared for the Boltons so we’re not doing so well there,” he said, moving their markers on the map. 

“The Umbers gave Rickon to the Boltons, even after we sent them a raven, so they should be considered lost to us. But the Karstarks declared for Ramsay without knowing they had another choice; without knowing there was another Stark on the playing field.”

“I’m a Snow.”

“I’m the Three Eyed Raven.”

“I’m not even sure why I’m still here,” said Aly.

Tyrion sighed in exasperation. “Lord Commander, stop being thick. You’re the oldest surviving son of Ned Stark. The only reason the North hasn’t risen up for you before now is because they didn’t realise you were an option. After all, taking the black is meant to be permanent. But, since you have decided that your death relieves you of your vow, it means you are back on the playing board. And if there are those who look askance at putting their weight behind a bastard, the fact that your father’s oldest legitimate son is willing to back you will go some way towards assuring them. Add in the fact that you have Sansa behind you as well —”

“I’m not Sansa!” cried Aly. “I never wanted to be Sansa,” she said, more softly. “I just, I wanted…”

Tyrion gave her a sad look, while the others in the room looked awkward. “I know, Aly. But people think you are Sansa. _Ramsay_ thinks you are Sansa. If you want to be free of him, you are going to have to keep pretending to be Sansa, just for a little bit longer.”

“It doesn’t bother you? That I am pretending to be your wife?”

The muffled gasps from Karsi, Meera, and Tormund let Tyrion know that that bit of news was a surprise to them, but he registered it only very vaguely as he exploded in anger. “Of course it does! I keep seeing you out of the corner of my eye and thinking of her and every time you aren’t her I feel a little more of my heart break. Every. Damn. Time. I thought, when Pod reported seeing you on our trip north, that at least Sansa was safe. Sansa was with her uncle, free from King’s Landing and my horrible family and finally safe, and one day I would get to see her one last time and apologise, for everything, and now I can’t, because you’re not her. You’re here and she isn’t and I fucking hate it!”

Tyrion stopped and took a deep breath, trying to get his emotions under control. “I hate it, and I want it to end, but Bran tells me that this is the only way. That winning the North free of Ramsay will somehow help Sansa come home. That’s all he’ll fucking well tell me, and at this point, I’ll take it, because I have to hope. I have to hope that I’ll see Sansa again, just one more time, to apologise. For everything. For my family, for Joffrey, for the shit we put her through, for having to marry me. She doesn’t need to forgive me; she doesn’t need to take me back. She can order my execution and as long as I can apologise first, I’ll go to the grave without argument. But before I can do that, we have to win the North back so Sansa can come home. Which means convincing the houses of the North that there still is a Stark in the game, still a Stark they can back, and if I have to use Bran’s blood, your face, and Jon’s sword to do it so my wife can come home, then that’s fucking well what I’m going to do!”

The only sound was the wind whistling as it blew through the cracks in the door.

“You can’t rely on the wildlings, though,” remarked Davos. “If you are running a campaign relying on Stark blood and Northern loyalty, there have to be Northerners fighting for you. It won’t look right, taking back Winterfell with the wildlings.”

“Not only with the wildlings, but also a Lannister, the Maid of Tarth, and the Onion Knight backing you. The only one who is widely known throughout the North is you, Lord Tyrion, and the North doesn’t have the best of associations with your family,” said Meera. “As the only other representative of a Northern house in the room, it doesn’t look good. And I like you.”

“We can’t pretend Aly is Sansa, not if we want the other houses to trust us,” said Jon. “Lying and deception may come naturally to you, Lannister, but they don’t sit well here in the North. Ramsay may think that Aly is Sansa, but I won’t ask men for their loyalty based on a lie. I may be back on the board, as you say, but those who chose to fight with us will have to fight on the word of me and Bran. I won’t perpetuate a lie.”

“That lie might be the thing that decides whether you win back Winterfell or lose it forever,” said Tyrion.

“No, that lie will be the thing that decides whether I can keep Winterfell after I’ve won it back,” snapped Jon. “The North will never forgive me if I lie to them, and if they turn against me, the Starks are finished — Sansa, Bran, Rickon, all of us.” He moved to the table, taking in the tokens placed around the map.

“We’ll have to go and ask for their support, each and every one of them. We can’t just send ravens. For one, ravens are too easy to intercept, or to ignore. And also, the North needs to see. They need to see me. They need to see that I am willing to ride the length of the North for them, so they’ll ride the length of the North for me.”

Jon looked around the room and nodded. “Lady Meera. I believed I offered you help to get home. Would you accompany me? As you pointed out, you are the only other Northerner in the room. You can help me convince the other houses as we ride south to return you to Greywater Watch.”

“It will take months to ride all that way and visit all those houses,” said Meera, but Tyrion thought she looked hopeful.

“Then it will take months. We’ve acted rashly in the past and it’s gotten us into this situation. We’ll go slowly. Build up our support, and our supplies, and our men. Winter is coming, and the North must be ready. Ser Davos, you should come with me as well. You might dismiss yourself due to your Flea Bottom accent, but you’re a lot like a Northerner. Having you with me will help, and by all accounts you were a good Hand to Stannis. I’ll need your wisdom.”

“I was a good Hand too,” said Tyrion, already knowing what Jon was going to say.

“But you are a Lannister,” said Jon. “I can’t have you with me. Not for this. You’ll have to stay here, or with the wildlings. Once I have gathered my army you can rejoin us, but having the Lannister Imp along will not sway the Northern lords to my cause. I am sorry, my friend, but you must stay here.”

Edd cleared his throat. “There’s also the small fact that you’re a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch. Unless we name you a wandering crow, you’re stuck here.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not a sworn member of the Night’s Watch. I never took the vow.”

Edd looked like he’d been smacked in the face with a wet fish. “But you’ve been here for over a year! Nearly two!”

“Aye, and for some reason, the opportunity for me to take the vows never actually came up.”

Edd looked accusingly at Jon, who shrugged. “I figured he was always going to be temporary here. So I never pushed for it.”

“So you saw this coming?”

“Yes, I saw my murder at the hands of traitors, and my resurrection, and thought ‘you know what would be very useful in all of this? One dwarf accused of regicide.’ Don’t be daft, Edd,” said Jon, dropping his sarcastic tone. “It’s just...whoever heard of a Lannister joining the Night’s Watch? Even a defrocked one. But regardless, Tyrion, my earlier point still stands. I can’t have a Lannister with me when I go to visit the North. You must stay here.”

Tyrion nodded his head glumly, but he could see the sense in it. 

“Aly, I can’t have you with me either,” said Jon. “I know that it would be safest for you to stay with me, but I cannot win back the North based on a lie. Ramsay’s wife escaped his torture, and asked me to take back the North to save our people from his cruelty. The majority of the Houses will assume that I mean Sansa when I speak of Ramsay’s wife, and the very clever will pick up that I don’t mention my sister at all. They will follow me out of curiosity for what is actually happening here, if nothing else. We may not be known in the North as being great thinkers, but we have a few very clever Lords. The truth of who you are mustn't go further than this room. But I won’t outright lie to my fellow Northerners.”

“But who will keep me safe?” asked Aly. “Ramsay knows I’m here. What’s to stop him from taking me the second you leave?”

Karsi stepped forward and put her hand on Aly’s arm. “I will. I’ve been thinking, King Crow. You have a lot of empty castles along this Wall of yours, and I have some spearwives that are getting a bit riled up in the camps with the menfolk so close. There’s been a few mild stabbings so far, and it won’t take long to make it worse. We can mind a castle for you, get it all set up, and your ‘sister’ will be safe with us.”

Tyrion nodded. “Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and The Shadow Tower are still manned, but there are some 16 other castles currently empty.”

Edd looked at the map and nodded. “Queensgate would be best. It’s the next castle west of here, and was one of the last to be abandoned, so the repairs needed won’t be so dire. I’m happy to give it to your command, Karsi, as long as you and your spearwives use it to help defend against the walkers, rather than causing mischief.”

Karsi smiled ferally. “You have my word, Sad Crow. Brienne, would you accompany us? It would help my girls learn how women fight, here in the South.”

“Women don’t fight here in the South, my lady,” said Brienne politely. “But it is well known I am sworn to Lady Sansa, so if she is going with you, so shall I.”

“I’ll stay with the Free Folk,” said Tormund. “Get them as ready as they can be for when you come North again. I can take your squire, too,” he said to Brienne, “if Queensgate is to be for women only. Though any time you wish to visit him, there’d be a warm meal and a warmer bed for you,” he finished with a wink.

Brienne looked mortified and fled the room.

Karsi reached over and smacked Tormund on the back of the head. “Idiot.”

“What?” he said, rubbing his head. “It’s worked for me in the past.”

“She’s a southern lady! They’re tender and delicate,” the spearwife explained.

“She’s not tender and delicate! She’s amazing. You’ve seen the way she looks at me.”

“She looks at you like she wants to carve you up and eat your liver,” said Tyrion.

“So you’ve seen it too!” breathed Tormund gleefully “I want to make babies with her. Great big monsters. They’d conquer the world, can’t you just see it?”

They all stared at Tormund in shock before laughter swept the room. 

“By the Gods, boy. You’re mad!” said Davos.

“I’m in love,” countered Tormund.

“It’s a good thing I’m staying in the North,” said Tyrion. “You’re going to need all the help you can get.”

“And what would you know about women, little crow?” asked Tormund. “Though I suppose you are at a very convenient height…”

Tyrion winked, enjoying seeing Jon turn red with outrage. “Very convenient, and very skilled at getting women into bed — and then keeping them there. Though if it’s skills within the bed that you’re after, Pod might be your best instructor.”

He nodded at the young squire, who was also very red, and saw with delight Aly’s face start to pink up as well.

After the laughter subsided, it was a much more cheerful group that stayed to plan the campaign over the next few months, though Aly did slip out and bring Brienne back before too long.

Tormund restrained himself to just winking at the Maid of Tarth when she re-entered the room, and Tyrion thought there may be hope for the wildling’s mad romance yet.

* * *

Movement out the corner of her eye made Daenerys turn towards the door. It eased open, and in came...Lyanna?

The russet direwolf trotted across to the council table and scrambled up into Sansa’s chair.

This odd action caused the conversation to stop, as everyone looked at the direwolf, sitting primly in a chair, then looked at Daenerys.

“Why are you all looking at me?” she asked. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

Lyanna let out a whuff, and tried to grab the papers sitting in front of Merry.

“Lyanna! No! What are you doing?”

It honestly looked like Lyanna was attempting to read the papers. Daenerys wondered if she was going mad, but then, the others could see it too.

Apparently reading was not a skill that direwolves had, as Lyanna let out a disappointed huff and pushed the papers back towards Merry with her nose.

She then sat upright, and her tail tocked against the chair. Daenerys had the distinct impression the wolf was trying to say “get on with it.”

She signaled at Ser Jorah to read the next item on the agenda. She wished Sansa was here. She missed her friend’s sage advice.

“The Thirteen have written, asking for an ambassador from Meereen to be installed in Qarth. They wish to open diplomatic and trade channels again.”

“The Thirteen?” asked Daenerys. “Didn’t Xaro Xhoan Daxos kill them all?”

Ser Jorah read further down the letter. “Apparently this is a new council of Thirteen. They apologise profusely for what happened to you at the House of the Undying, and are offering reparations. Including the ship that brought this letter.”

“Another ship? That will be useful.”

Lyanna whuffed, seemingly in agreement, and Daenerys began to get a suspicion.

Not wanting to appear crazy, she didn’t act on it.

“How do we know the new council is acting in good faith?”

“We don’t, your Grace,” said Ser Barristan. “It’s diplomacy. We have to trust that they are.”

“If I may, your Grace,” said Ferregi, “I have experience with the assignment of diplomats. In Braavos, we will send one of our highest born nobles as a diplomat to an uncertain posting, along with a considerable guard. The guard can be explained as protection to get the diplomat to and from their posting over hostile terrain, and by sending a highly ranked noble, it shows that not only did we consider the invitation an honour, we are also prepared to go to war to get our noble back.”

“But Meereen has no nobles anymore,” said Merry. “Our Queen has seen to that.”

“Not very many, this is true,” said Daenerys. “But there are still a few old families that could suit our purposes. Many of them have a candidate in the running to form the new council here.”

Lyanna whuffed again, and Daenerys decided to give into her suspicion. “Lyanna? Is there something you would like to add?”

Lyanna whuffed, nodding her head.

“Do you support the idea of sending an ambassador to Qarth?”

Another whuff.

“Should it be someone from the old noble houses of Meereen?”

Another.

“Should it be someone currently in the running to be on the council? Therefore, a woman?”

And another.

“Or I could send your mistress. That would make a statement.”

There was no whuff this time, just Lyanna’s eyes narrowing into a glare.

Daenerys sighed. “Sansa, is that you?”

Lyanna barked, her ears pricking up and her tail tocking against the chair.

“How?”

It looked like Lyanna appeared to shrug, but didn’t have the muscles for it.

“Your Grace...there are old legends about skinchangers in Westeros. People with the ability to enter the mind of animals,” explained Ser Jorah to the puzzled looks over the word ‘skinchanger’. “There have been people in my house with the ability to change into bears, or at least to use their mind to control bears. It is one of the reasons why House Mormont takes a bear as a sigil. There have been Starks in the past that were known skinchangers. Perhaps Sansa is one of these skinchangers.”

Lyanna whuffed, smacking her tail again.

“So which is it, Sansa? Have you shifted form, or are you using your mind to control Lyanna?”

Lyanna just looked at Daenerys, and the Queen realised it was too difficult a question for the wolf to easily answer.

“Have you shifted form?”

Lyanna didn’t move.

“Are you using your mind to control Lyanna?”

Lyanna whuffed and banged her tail against the chair.

“So your body is still safe in bed?”

Another whuff and tail-bang.

“When I said you should rest, this is not what I meant.”

It looked like Lyanna was laughing at her, and Daenerys tried hard to hide her smile in response.

“You can take the body of your direwolf, and you decide to use this power to come to council meetings. Are you mad?”

Luann whuffed, again. Daenerys had the distinct impression she was being laughed at by the wolf.

“Very well then. If you insist on staying?”

Lyanna dropped her head onto the table and looked at Daenerys with the most pleading expression she’d ever seen.

“Fine. Who do you suggest for the post of ambassador to Qarth?”

_This is going to be a long meeting,_ though Daenerys.

* * *

A meeting? This wolf had to sit through a WHOLE meeting? This wolf wanted to see the fire things! Now!

_Patience, Lyanna,_ said mistress-in-head. _We can go and see the fire things after this._

Really? The fire things? After this meeting? This was going to be so exciting! This wolf had been wanting to meet the fire things for so long! They smelled so interesting.

Mistress-in-head felt amused. _I have no idea what they will make of you, but I promise, we can go and see them afterwards. I will get the Queen to take us, as I don’t want to show you how to open the gate yourself. Who knows what mischief you’d get up to!_

This wolf sighed. This was going to be a long meeting.


	15. The King in the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely. Now, dismount and kneel before me. Surrender your army, and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night’s Watch and I will pardon these treasonous lords for betraying my house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue from S06E09 ‘The Battle of the Bastards’ and S06E10 ‘The Winds of Winter’.

Tyrion kept a close eye on Aly as Ramsay and his party cantered towards them. 

“My beloved wife,” said Ramsay once he had drawn to a halt. “And your first husband! What a lovely surprise to see you here. Come to win her back, have you? I’m afraid she’s not in the condition you left her in, but then, the Lannister Imp knows what to do with used goods, doesn’t he? But enough of this. She’s mine, and you can’t have her. Not any more.”

Ramsay turned his gaze to Jon. “Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely. Now, dismount and kneel before me. Surrender your army, and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night’s Watch and I will pardon these treasonous lords for betraying my house.”

None of them moved. The only noise was the squeak of tack and the jangle of bits from their various horses.

“Come, bastard. You don’t have the men, you don’t have the horses. And you don’t have Winterfell! Why lead those poor souls into slaughter? There’s no need for a battle. Get off your horse, and kneel. I am a man of mercy.”

Tyrion felt a chill run down his spine. For a second there, it seemed it was his nephew speaking — his nephew pointing a crossbow at Sansa, ready to fire at any moment. _Gods above, we have to win. We can’t leave a madman like this alive. We especially can’t leave him at our backs if we are to fight the walkers._

“You’re right,” said Jon. “There’s no need for a battle. And thousands of men don’t need to die. Only one of us. Let’s settle this the old way: you, and me. No one else.”

Ramsay just laughed. “I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in the North talk about you, you’re the greatest swordsman who ever walked the earth — greater than even that one’s brother!” he crowed, indicating Tyrion. “And maybe you are that good. But maybe not. I don’t know if I’d beat you. But I know that my army will beat yours. I have six thousand men. You have what, half that? Not even?”

“Aye,” barked Jon, “you have the numbers. But would your men want to fight for you, when they hear you wouldn’t fight for them?”

A mad, slightly worried grin stretched across Ramsay’s face. “Oh, you’re good. He’s good,” said Ramsay to the lord beside him. “Very good. But tell me, bastard, will you let your little brother die because you’re too proud to surrender?”

“How do we know you have him?” asked Aly.

Ramsay’s eyes flicked to her and he licked his lips, before gesturing behind him. One of the attendant lords reached into the bag at his side, and threw the contents towards Jon. 

Jon’s horse snorted and took a step back when the wolf’s head landed before him. Jon closed his eyes in pain, clearly recognising the wolf’s head, while Ghost let out a whine.

Aly just nodded. “You’re going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton. Sleep well.”

She turned and cantered away, and the rest of their party followed.

* * *

The next morning dawned fine and clear. The wind was favourable to them. They marshalled and formed up, exactly how the war council had planned the night before. Tyrion was at the back, alongside Aly, Lady Mormont, and Bran. Brienne, Pod, and Tyrion had been tasked with keeping them safe, and Tyrion just had to hope they were out of the range of arrows. There was an army between them and Ramsay, but Ramsay’s men were rumoured to be excellent archers. He was worried.

Though, looking at the fierce expression on Lyanna Mormont’s face, maybe he shouldn’t be. The small Lady was staring over the battlefield as if she could sway the outcome of today by simply forcing it to be so. Davos had had Tyrion in stitches with the description of how they’d convinced Lady Mormont to provide them with sixty-two fighting men.

Having now met Lady Mormont himself, Tyrion had only one thought for if they got out of this alive: _Lady Mormont and Lady Tyrell must never, ever meet. Or they’ll rule us all within the sennight._

Tyrion watched as Davos rode past, doing a final sweep of their lines, before taking his place. Something in his expression worried Tyrion, but perhaps it was just how the man looked before battle.

It was an odd army to be leading, to be sure. Northerners and wildlings and giants and direwolves — or at least, one of each of the last two. And facing them, the vastly better equipped, better trained, and presumably better fed army of the Boltons.

Ramsay emerged from the Bolton lines, leading someone on a rope. He stopped, tugging the figure beside him, though Tyrion couldn’t see who it is.

“It’s Rickon,” said Bran. Tyrion had no idea how the boy could know that — he was in his sled below while Tyrion was mounted on his horse, theoretically giving Tyrion a better line of sight, but Tyrion had to trust the Three Eyed Raven. If it was Rickon, it would explain why Jon had just dismounted from his horse as well.

Ramsay held up a knife that glinted in the sunlight, and Tyrion was afraid that Ramsay was about to kill Rickon right in front of them, enraging Jon and ruining all their plans.

Which was precisely what happened. Ramsay sent Rickon running in their direction, then raised his bow and arrow. Jon raced back for his horse and galloped as fast as he could towards Rickon, but it didn’t look like he’d get there on time.

Rickon kept turning to look behind him, and stumbled, hitting the ground. Ramsay shot his first arrow, which hit the ground beside Rickon. The boy scrambled up and kept running.

Ramsay fired another arrow. Then another. They kept missing, but only just.

_Zig-zag,_ thought Tyrion. “You have to zig-zag!” he yelled, knowing there was no way for Rickon to hear him.

A gasp beside him made him look down at Bran. The boy’s eyes had turned white, and he was staring into the sky. Tyrion looked back to the battlefield where another arrow was descending towards Rickon.

“Left! Go left!” he urged the boy, and suddenly Rickon did. The arrow missed him by a wide margin and he gained just that little bit more ground. Ramsay fired again, and this time, Tyrion said “right!” and Rickon dodged to the right, the arrow landing where he had been before he’d dodged.

Jon reached his brother and pulled him into the saddle before turning his horse in a tight spin and galloping out of the range of Ramsay’s arrows. Bran shuddered, his eyes turning blue again.

Tyrion could faintly hear the yell of rage from Ramsay as his prey got away. Jon made it back to their lines and, after clasping Rickon closely to him, pushed him away, indicating where Tyrion and the others were standing guard. The young boy looked winded and frightened, but nodded and came towards them.

Jon watched until Rickon was safe, then turned back to his men. He gave the signal to charge.

* * *

The battle that had just occurred had been brutal, but in the end, they had prevailed. They had more men than Ramsay thought, after all, and the wildlings and crannogmen had proved their worth many times over, being able to sneak around and flank Ramsay’s army (even if Jon had had to explain to Tormund what, exactly, a pincer movement was). Bran seemed to have some way of taking over people’s bodies as he’d done for his brother — his eyes would go white, and suddenly, one of Ramsay’s men would stumble in just the wrong direction into a sword strike or an arrow. Ghost had sown confusion within the ranks of Ramsay’s horse, and Wun Wun had taken great delight in squashing as many of the opposing army as possible.

The Nights of the Vale riding in at the last minute, exactly as planned, had helped turn the tide in their favour. It had taken Bran, Tyrion, and Davos together to argue Jon and Aly into contacting Littlefinger and asking for aid, but they had triumphed in the end and Aly had duly pretended to be ‘Sansa’ one more time. 

They figured that if the Northern lords ever found out about that one, pulling one over on a loathed Southern lord such as Littlefinger would hopefully cancel out the lie.

Northerners were complicated, Tyrion reflected, but he thought he was finally starting to understand them.

Or maybe not.

Jon agreeing with Aly’s plan to feed Ramsay to his own dogs was unexpected, but considering what the girl had gone through, perhaps it shouldn’t have been.

Pod and Brienne had accompanied Aly to the kennels to see the deed done, and had flatly refused to talk about what had happened between Aly and Ramsay. 

“The girl had her vengeance. It’s over. Let it be,” Brienne had said. Pod had just looked sad, and gone to stand guard outside Aly’s door should she need anything.

For his part, Tyrion had helped with the clean up, doing what he could to treat wounded men. He and Melisandre had spent the last few months working as a hybrid Maester to the remaining men of the Night’s Watch, as well as learning from and helping teach the healers within the Free Folk. Tyrion had book learning, Melisandre a deft hand when sewing and a wealth of knowledge of healing practices from Essos, and the Free Folk healers were skilled at setting bones and herb lore. Between them, they’d managed to keep the fighters in good health while Jon was working his way through the houses of the North gathering allies. They’d helped soothe the aches and pains of the elders among the Free Folk, and had even assisted at the birth of a babe or two.

Well, Tyrion had mostly been left outside the birthing chamber to get the expectant father as drunk as possible, seeing as how both Free Folk and Melisandre firmly believed that a birthing chamber was no place for a man, but he’d helped. In his own way.

So it was a busy Tyrion and Melisandre who helped tend the wounded after the battle. Eventually, Melisandre waved him off, saying that she and the Free Folk could deal with the wounded, but the living needed Tyrion. He’d gone to seek out Jon and had understood what Melisandre meant.

The fight to take back Winterfell had cost Jon, even if his brother had been saved. Bran had gone all inscrutable again, while Davos had disappeared somewhere. Jon was trying to arrange for the dead to be burned, for the rest to be fed, and for the Bolton banners to be replaced, all at once and all on his own.

Tyrion gently took most of those duties over, accompanied by Brienne and Pod. Brienne saw to Karsi and her spearwives, as well as the crannogwomen that had joined their fight. Tyrion was glad to see Meera still amongst them, as he’d come to like the girl’s loyalty and sarcastic way of dealing with Bran. Pod went to deal with the kitchens and Tyrion took over arranging for the bodies to be burned in great pyres outside the walls of Winterfell. Tormund came to help Jon, and together they supervised the replacement of the Bolton banners with Stark ones. It took Tyrion a second, but he realised: Jon had taken the traditional bastard sigil, inverting his house colours. Rather than a grey direwolf on a white field, the banners being flown above Winterfell now had a white direwolf on a grey field.

Looking at Ghost, comfortably ensconced beside a half-destroyed wolf statue and gnawing contentedly on what looked to be a human leg, Tyrion wondered if the inverted sigil was a reminder for Jon as much as it was for everyone else.

* * *

“You can’t expect the Knights of the Vale to side with wildling invaders!” roared one of said Knights of the Vale. A loud one. In very fancy armour. Since Jon had taken back Winterfell, the Northern lords who had chosen to sit out the battle had come to Winterfell to pledge their loyalty to the new Lord of Winterfell. Jon had refused to grant them individual audiences, and instead insisted that they all meet for the first time together.

It was not going well. 

Tyrion just sipped his ale, letting the argument rage around him. At least the ale was better here — seemingly, when first the Greyjoys and then the Boltons had sacked Winterfell, both groups had had the good sense to leave the alcohol alone. 

“We didn’t invade!” countered Tormund. “We were invited.”

“Not. By. Me!” said Lord Stuffypants, sitting down with a huff.

Jon stood, and the room quietened. “The Free Folk, the Northerners, and the Knights of the Vale fought bravely, fought together, and we won. My father used to say that we find our true friends on the battlefield, and that holds true today for us.”

A Northern lord stood. “The Boltons are defeated. The war is over. Winter has come! If the Maesters are right, it’ll be the coldest one in a thousand years. We should ride home, and wait out the coming storms.”

“The war is not over,” said Jon. “And I promise you, friend, the true enemy won’t wait out the storm. He brings the storm. I’ve seen him.”

“So have I,” said Meera, from where she was standing behind Jon, her arm in a sling.

“And I,” said Tyrion.

Karsi, Tormund, and the rest of the Free Folk agreed. They had seen the true enemy, the white walkers, and they did bring storms. 

The room broke out into confused mutterings. It seemed the lords of the North and the Knights of the Vale were reluctant to believe there was another enemy out there. 

_As if Ramsay Bolton would have been enough to convince the honourable Jon Snow to leave his post on The Wall and claim Winterfell,_ thought Tyrion, fiddling with his empty cup. _They talk about honour and the Starks, but they don’t understand the stubbornness that runs through them, do they?_

The scrape of a chair on stone cut through the hubbub and Tyrion looked up to see Lady Mormont had taken to her feet.

“Your son was butchered at the Red Wedding, Lord Manderlay,” she began, and Jon took his seat. “But you refused the call.” The old man she was addressing looked shamed, and she turned her attention elsewhere. “You swore allegiance to House Stark, Lord Glover, but in their hour of greatest need, you refused the call. And you, Lord Kerwin, your father was skinned alive by Ramsay Bolton. Still, you refused the call. But House Mormont remembers! House Reed remembers! The North remembers! We know no king but the king in the North whose name is Stark! I don’t care if he’s a bastard. Ned Stark’s blood runs through his veins. He’s my king, from this day, until his last day!”

The room broke out into murmurs again, and Lady Mormont inclined her head at Jon before retaking her seat.

Tyrion raised his glass at the girl. _Oh, she’s a dangerous one already,_ he thought. _I must definitely keep her far away from Lady Tyrell. And hope that she’s someone else’s problem when her hormones kick in. She’s going to be a terror._

Lord Manderlay stood. “Lady Mormont speaks harshly, yet truly. My son died for Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. I didn’t think we’d find another King, not in my lifetime. I didn’t commit my men to your cause because I didn’t want more Manderlay’s dying for nothing. But I was wrong! Jon Snow avenged the Red Wedding! He is the White Wolf!” He drew his sword and took a knee. “The King in the North!”

Another lord stood. “I did not fight beside you on the field, and I will regret that until my dying day. A man can only admit when he was wrong, and ask forgiveness.”

Tyrion kicked Jon under the table, who answered the lord. “There is nothing to forgive, my lord.”

The other man looked incredibly relieved, and turned to face the rest of the hall. “There will be more fights to come! House Glover will stand behind House Stark as we have for a thousand years! And I will stand behind Jon Snow, the King in the North!”

One by one, the northern lords drew their swords and pledged their allegiance to Jon Snow, the cry of “The King in the North!” ringing loudly around the room.

_Well,_ thought Tyrion. _This changes things._

* * *

And it did. Before long, Winterfell was a hub of frantic activity, with riders coming and going day and night, helping the North prepare for winter and for the Night King. There were stores to collect and consolidate, winter crops to sow, and glass gardens to repair or build. 

When Tyrion remembered that the dead hadn’t been able to follow them across the water at Hardhome, the idea was raised that women and children should be evacuated to as many islands as they could be.

One of those was Bear Island, and to the surprise of absolutely nobody, Lady Lyanna refused to go.

“You’ll be safe there, my Lady,” Davos had tried to convince her. He was the only one that she even appeared to listen to, and Jon had reckoned the old knight would have the best chance of persuading her.

“Pfft,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “Here we stand.”

“If the lass wants to stay, let her stay,” said Tormund. Karsi nodded in the background. “We’ve a few Free Folk around her age. She can learn to fight with them.”

“She’s a noble lady!” objected one of the stuffier lords. “She should learn the arts and graces of noble ladies, so as to make a good marriage and have many children!”

“She’ll have no children if the walkers win,” said Tormund. “Let her stay, and learn how to defend her lands.”

Jon agreed with Tormund, and Lyanna got to stay, although she sent her Maester back to Bear Island with a large party of refugees and detailed instructions as to how they should be housed and cared for.

An unexpected side effect of Tormund’s defence of Lyanna was that Lyanna seemed to decide to imprint on Tormund, rather like a baby duck. She followed him all over the castle, sat beside him at meals, and was seemingly teaching him to read.

Tyrion wondered if some of Lyanna’s fascination was from the fact that Tormund was the hairiest, cheerfulest man to ever live, while for his part, Tormund seemed impressed by the pint-sized girl who had no qualms about scolding men many years her senior for not taking their duties seriously.

Apparently, they had bonded over their mutual love of bears, though by the Gods Tyrion hoped Tormund had toned down some of his stories about making love to bear-women. Lyanna was only a child.

“Of course I didn’t!” laughed Tormund. “She needs to learn the facts of life somehow. May as well be told stories where the man respects the woman who is willing to lie with him than the rubbish you lot tell your gentle ladies.”

From that, Tyrion gathered someone had given young Lyanna The Talk, at which point she’d promptly gone to her good friend Tormund and compared notes.

Tyrion knew a losing battle when he saw it, and just hoped that the two would keep each other out of trouble. Karsi was no help — she thought the entire situation was hilarious and would frequently egg the two on to have wilder and wilder adventures. Tormund’s frequent absences from council meetings meant that Karsi had taken on more of a leadership role among the Free Folk, which seemed to suit Karsi, Tormund, and the remaining Free Folk very well indeed. Jon refused to comment, but he also did nothing to stop the friendship.

The person who seemed most upset by the situation was Brienne. Since Aly had shown very little interest in leaving the safety of Winterfell, Brienne had taken to guarding Lyanna and training some of the youth around the castle. The constant pained looks she gave whenever she saw Lyanna and Tormund haring off on another adventure were hilarious, and Tyrion found himself joining Karsi in encouraging them just to see the expressions on Brienne’s face.

(Though Tyrion swears it was not his idea that Tormund and Lyanna attempt to run the rapids of White Knife on a homemade raft, stories differ).

Mostly, Tyrion enjoyed hearing laughter and seeing joy around the castle, and from the fond look on Jon’s face, he did as well. They all knew they were facing an impossible task, and the happiness and life generated by the adventures of Lyanna and Tormund helped lighten the burden considerably.

The situation got even better (unless you were Brienne, in which case it got exponentially worse) when Karsi decided to bring her daughters to Winterfell as well.

Lyanna didn’t seem to know what to make of Brigette and Otilia, and initially they weren’t sure of her either. The castle seemed to hold its breath when the girls first arrived, particularly when Tormund greeted the girls as if they were long-lost relatives. Would Lyanna revert back to being a terrifying miniature lady of the North, or would she continue to actually act as a child, having snowball fights and pulling pranks?

“She came to see me,” confessed Jon to Tyrion one day not long after Karsi’s daughters arrived. “She was concerned that she was acting too childish; that she should return to acting more like a ruling lady.” He smiled. “I told her that she should keep acting as she is. After all, we were all children once, with the freedom to run and play and get into mischief. As long as she keeps her weapons training up, and attends meetings when asked to, I have no problem with her having playmates and going on adventures.”

And so the troublesome duo of Tormund and Lyanna became a gang of four; shortly after that, the combined powers of the three girls managed to break through Rickon’s shell (the poor boy had been nearly catatonic once he’d understood he was safe at Winterfell). Soon it was common to see all four of the young people training and adventuring together, Tormund gleefully joining in and the long-suffering Brienne trailing behind, keeping a close watch on proceedings and stepping in when she thought things got too dangerous.

The children and their adult companions would spend long days ranging outside the walls of Winterfell, learning tracking and woodcraft and weapons from Tormund and Brienne. (If their relationship had progressed, neither was talking about it, and it was driving Tyrion _crazy_. He was used to knowing everything, dammit!).

They were late to return one night, and everyone was worried. It was past time for the gates to be shut, but none of them had come back yet. Jon, Tyrion, and Davos were pacing outside the gates, just at the edge of the torchlight, debating whether they should send out a party to try and find them, when Brigette and Otilia came trotting up on their ponies, leading the other mounts. For some reason, the saddle blankets on the other horses were all missing.

“Keep the gates open!” called Brigette. “They’re coming, they’re just slow.”

After what seemed like an eternity, the others emerged from the gloom. Brienne and Tormund were carrying something on a stretcher, while another child walked beside them.

Terrified that one of the children had gotten hurt, Tyrion raced through The snow, cursing his short legs for the millionth time. As he got closer, he realised that there were two children walking, not one — they’d been following each other so closely that in the low light, they’d blended into one.

“If the children are okay, who is on the stretcher?” Jon asked the question Tyrion was thinking, and Tyrion could only shrug.

Eventually, the party reached the light, and the contents of the stretcher were revealed.

A young black direwolf pup was on the stretcher, one leg clearly broken.

“We found her!” said Rickon, hope shining out of him. “She was stuck in a trap and we got her out! Brienne said you’d know how to treat her wounds, Jon. You will help, won’t you?”

Part of Tyrion wanted to object. It was a wild animal! It had no place in a castle!

But then Ghost stepped forward, and touched noses with the pup. Ghost let out a satisfied whuff, and went to nudge Jon who affectionately patted his head.

“Yes, I’ll help. Bring her into the light so I can see what needs to be done, and I’ll teach you what I know. But she’s your responsibility, Rickon. You’ll have to take care of her.”

“I will, Jon, you’ll see! She won’t replace Shaggydog in my heart — she can’t — but she’s her own wolf. And I love her just the same.”

“She needs a name,” said Tyrion, and was surprised to see Rickon blush.

“I was thinking of calling her Osha,” said Rickon, scuffing his foot on the ground.

Tyrion had to blink suddenly. There was something in his eyes. Cursed dust.

* * *

Osha soon recovered under Bran’s doting care, and soon was the constant playmate of the children. Ghost could often be found joining in their games, and teaching the younger wolf (and the children) the finer aspects of stalking, hunting, and pouncing.

In time, Karsi’s daughters adopted two kittens from a stable cat’s litter, and Lyanna was the only one left without a pet.

Tyion approached the subject tentatively over dinner one night, and was relieved to hear that Lyanna wasn’t jealous of her friend’s pets.

“I’m not overly fond of cats, although they have their uses, and I don’t want a direwolf. I’m not a Stark, I’m a Mormont,” she said, her small face utterly serious.

Tyrion felt himself relax, happy that there were no hard feelings amongst the friends, when Lyanna continued.

“Besides, Tormund has promised me a bear.”

“ _No!_ ” roared every adult in the room.

Almost every adult. 

Tormund just grinned and helped himself to more ale, while Karsi fell off her seat with laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't kill Rickon. I just couldn't.
> 
> Due to a last-minute reshuffle, there is no Sansa in this chapter. There is a lot of Sansa next week! Also due to the last-minute reshuffle: the fact that there are two more chapters to come after this one, not one. You’re welcome?


	16. The Queen in the East

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Westeros needs you now. Tywin Lannister is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue from S06E10 ‘The Winds of Winter’, S07E01 ‘Dragonstone’, S07E02 ‘Stormborn’. 
> 
> I got quite a few comments in favour of a series of Lyanna and Tormund’s Adventures, so I’ll post those as they come to me (probably early in the new year). If you want to make sure you know when they are available, please subscribe to the whole 'Elegance Cannot Kill a Man' series.

Sansa leant on the balcony and looked down at the courtyard where the city of Meereen was celebrating. It was hard to imagine that this was the same courtyard where so many Meereenese nobles had met their fate at the dragons’ claws all those months ago, but it was.

Meereen was a different city now.

Whereas once Meereen had been a dusty, yellow, ugly city, it glowed with a soft grace these days. Most of the pyramids now sported gardens along their steps, helping to provide the city with essential food even though normal trade had resumed. The new academies and healing houses were proving popular, and academics and healers and deep-thinkers from across Essos were starting to arrive in Meereen, looking to be at the forefront of knowledge and medicine in Essos. Sansa privately thought it wouldn’t be long until some curious Westerosi made the trip across the Narrow Sea, tempted by knowledge.

Arnaq had been busy, selling copies of many of his books to those who had come to Meereen to search for new knowledge. Sansa herself had lent a hand on occasion, when there was a big order and not enough scribes available. Her hand was more than passing fair, after all, and she liked spending time with the scribes. She’d found if she sat quietly enough, and seemed absorbed in her work, that they would relax and begin to gossip, and share stories, and sometimes sing as they worked.

She’d learned several new songs, moonlighting as a scribe. Some of them were lovely and she’d passed them on to Merry — Meereenese peasant songs, for the most part, songs of sand and wind and the hopes that swept by on both — but some were...raunchier. 

Sansa was saving those for the next time she was on a long march with soldiers. They’d appreciate them much more.

A soft footfall made Sansa turn, and Daenerys joined her at the balcony. The party below was to celebrate Daughters of the Harpy taking control of Meereen. Daenerys had formally ceded her control of the city to the Daughters that evening, and stepped down as Queen of Meereen.

And been installed as Mhysa instead. 

Sansa had rolled her eyes at that, but understood. Daenerys cared about Meereen. She didn’t want to leave it behind her, not fully — and she didn’t want to leave it without her protection.

The Daughters of the Harpy (Daenerys had tried to institute the name ‘The Council of Seven’ but had been overruled, a situation she’d dealt with surprisingly calmly) ruled Meereen. That was without question.

But knowing that Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons and Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, would come roaring back as Mhysa to avenge her city?

Well. Even the most independent of the Daughters had agreed that having Daenerys as a back-up plan was a good idea.

Sansa saw her friend had an empty goblet and offered the amphora of pomegranate juice that was beside her on the balcony.

“You’ve changed.”

“Well, I’m not Queen of Meereen anymore. I don’t have to dress like one.”

It was true — Daenerys had changed from her tokar into a more Westerosi style of dress — but that wasn’t what Sansa meant. She said as much.

“You’re calmer now than when I first arrived, when you were still fighting for your place here.”

“I feel calmer,” agreed Daenerys. “I understand ruling much more now. Ruling Meereen helped me understand just how much I needed to learn before I could attempt to rule Westeros.”

“Good,” said Sansa, withdrawing a letter from her dress. “Because Westeros needs you now. Tywin Lannister is dead.”

* * *

“How did he die?” asked Ser Barristan, looking troubled.

Sansa shrugged, looking down at the letter once again though she’d already memorised it. “Natural causes, apparently.”

“Poisons can be natural,” said Merry softly.

“As is patricide for some animals,” whispered Ferregi in return.

It was crude to joke about how Tywin Lannister had died, but she couldn’t blame them. The Old Lion had cast a long shadow, one that reached even to Essos. The world felt different now he was gone.

She wondered if anyone had told Tyrion. 

She wondered if he had mourned.

“Natural causes or not, the gods have given us a sign. The King’s grandfather, one of the greatest generals in living memories, is dead. Now is the time for us to take Westeros,” declared Daenerys. “How long will it take for us to make ready to leave?”

Sansa had expected this question, and along with Missandei and Ser Barristan, had prepared a plan. “Three weeks, your Grace. It will take us that long to finish outfitting the ships and gather the stores needed to cross the Narrow Sea.”

Daenerys nodded. “As much as I wish to leave now, I know well enough now that an army marches on its stomach. I suspect a navy sails on its, just the same. We leave in three weeks.”

She stood and made to leave the room, when Merry spoke up. “Your Grace, I’m sorry, but Ferregi and I will not be accompanying you to Westeros.”

Ferregi rose from his seat and stood behind his wife, his hand resting on her shoulder.

They shared a sweet smile, and Sansa knew what they were going to say before they said it.

“I am with child, khaleesi. The healers estimate I am four months along, and by the time you are ready to sail…” Merry trailed off, and Sansa looked at Daenerys. She knew that her apparent inability to have children hurt her friend, though privately Sansa thought it was a load of rubbish for her friend to have accepted the words of a half-mad witch as truth.

Daenerys just smiled back at the couple. “I wish you happy, all three of you. Will you stay in Meereen or travel back to Braavos?”

“We would like to stay in Meereen,” said Ferregi. “We are happy here, and have come to love the city almost as much as we love each other.”

Daenerys crossed over to them. “I am sorry you are not coming with us, my friends, but I wish you all the best. Anyway, let’s be sensible. A war is no place for a pregnant woman. I will miss you dearly, and once everything is settled, you will come to visit, won’t you?’’

“Of course, your Grace!” said Merry. “Once Westeros is secure, and I’m recovered from the birthing chamber, we’ll come over. Shall we make it a competition, your Grace? Which will happen first — me birthing a child, or you birthing a glorious new age for Westeros?”

Sansa turned to Inigo. He didn’t always come to their council meetings, but he had come today. She wondered if Merry and Ferregi had already told him and asked him to come as moral support. “And what of you, Inigo? Are you coming with us?”

Her dancing master smiled. “I travelled to Westeros in the first place to discover who killed my father, and to kill them in return. I solved the puzzle, thanks to you my lady, but I have not had my vengeance. I will return to Westeros with you, and I will seek out the name of the man who killed my father. And then I shall find this man, and I will say to him, ‘My name is Inigo Forel. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’”

* * *

Three weeks later, it was the night before they were due to sail. Everything was ready for them to cast off at high tide the next morning.

Sansa, Daenerys, and their friends had had one final dinner together in Essos. There was much laughter and quite a few gifts, as it was also Sansa’s Name Day. She had turned during the crossing to Braavos, and eighteen shortly after arriving in Meereen. It was hard to believe that nearly two years had passed since she’d left Westeros, but they had.

The dinner had ended early, as tomorrow would be a long day, and Sansa had returned to her rooms. Her largely empty rooms. Her things were already packed; the trunks stacked neatly along the wall. 

She ran her fingers along the torque around her neck, thinking of Westeros.

Thinking of her husband.

As soon as she could, she’d ride north to The Wall. She’d find him, and apologise for everything she’d put him through.

Sansa leaned out the window, looking at the lights glinting across the city, and thought of the lights of King’s Landing, and the stupid little girl she had been back then. She was older now, and hopefully wiser. She certainly felt wiser.

A knock at her door made her turn, and Daenerys let herself in.

“I find it hard to believe this is actually happening,” said Daenerys as she joined Sansa at the window.

“You have your armies,” said Sansa. “You have your ships, you have your dragons. Moreover, you have experience of ruling now. And ruling successfully. Everything is ready, your Grace. It is happening.”

She looked at Daenerys’ profile in the dim light. “Are you afraid?”

The world seemed to stop for a moment, then Daenerys nodded.

“Good,” said Sansa. “That means you’re human. I’d started to wonder.”

Daenerys gaped at Sansa for a minute, then laughed. “Ah, Virzeth Veri. What would I do without you?”

“You’d do wonderfully, your Grace. You’re Daenerys Stormborn, the Mhysa of Meereen, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea.”

“I haven’t been to Westeros since I was a girl. And even then, I was on Dragonstone, not the mainland proper. I’m going to need you, Sansa Lannister. Sansa Stark. I don’t know the Kingdoms, not like you do. They are words on paper for me, but to you, they are people. Real people that you know and love.”

“You’ll get to know and love them, your Grace.”

“Eventually. But for now, I need you to stay with me. I need your council now, more than ever before.”

Sansa smiled at her friend. “It’s yours, your Grace.”

“Good.” Daenerys withdrew something from her pocket. “I had something made for you. I’m not sure if it’s right, but I asked Ser Barristan. I figured he’d seen the original the most.”

She extended her hand, and the light caught on the badge she was offering. Sansa reached out with a trembling hand.

Her father had worn a badge like that, and it had killed him in the end. Her husband had worn a badge like that, and had lost everything in the end.

“Sansa Lannister, will you be my Hand?”

Sansa fought back tears, memories of her father and her husband coming thick and fast, and nodded. She reached out and took the badge — an honour freely offered, and a burden freely taken.

* * *

“I want every Northern Maester to scour their records for any mention of ‘dragonglass’, or ‘obsidian’. It is the only thing that kills white walkers, and it is more valuable to us now than gold. We need to find it, we need to mine it, we need to make weapons from it.”

Something niggled at the back of his mind, but couldn’t figure out what it was, so Tyrion turned back to Jon’s speech.

“Everyone, aged ten to sixty, will drill daily with spears, pikes, and bow and arrow.”

A Northern lord laughed. “It’s about time we taught these boys of summer how to fight.”

The room chuckled, and Jon spoke over them. “Not just the boys,” he said, his voice ringing out clearly. “We can’t defend the North if only half the population is fighting.”

The same lord as before stood. “You expect me to put a spear in my granddaughter’s hand?” he asked.

“I not only expect you do it Lord Glover,” said Jon, “I’m ordering you to do it. And to show her how to wield it.”

Lady Mormont rose, and Tyrion had to fight down a grin. “I refuse to sit by the fire knitting while my men fight for me, Lord Glover. The Women of Bear Island have always fought; now, the rest of the North shall join us. I might be a girl, but I am every bit as much of a Northerner as you.”

Lord Glover tried to speak, but Lady Mormont just raised her voice and carried on. “And I don’t need your permission to defend the North!”

Karsi whooped, as did some of the other spearwives who were present, and even the normally stoic Brienne of Tarth grinned.

“If you are in need of more sergeants-at-arms and training masters,” said Jon, “see Ser Davos and we will provide what we can. We must put aside petty matters, now more than ever. As my father used to say, when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. The Maesters have sent their ravens, my lords. Winter is here. The snows are falling, and the white winds are blowing. Only together will we defeat the Night King, and live to see summer come again.”

* * *

The shrieks of the dragons mingled with the cries of the seabirds as their boats slowly came into the harbour below Dragonstone. Sansa looked to where Daenerys was standing at the prow of the boat, her expression utterly placid. 

The castle was a sharp edged, angular thing. It had clearly been designed to withstand storms.

 _I hope it can withstand this one,_ though Sansa as they rowed ever closer.

Eventually, they made land, and as soon as the boat was stable Daenerys stepped out and walked across the beach. Her friends disembarked as well, but when Ser Jorah went to move forward, both Missandei and Sansa held up their hands in a signal for the knight to wait.

Daenerys knelt, and touched the sand, bowing her head. Sansa figured now was as good a time as any to offer a prayer to the gods that they would be successful in taking Westeros.

The first ranks of the Unsullied landed on the shore, and formed up before Daenerys, leading her up the long flight of stone stairs.

It was an argument that had raged for days aboard her flagship. Daenerys wanted to be the first to set foot on Dragonstone, while the others were concerned for her safety.

“We don’t know who holds Dragonstone, your Grace!” Sansa had eventually yelled in frustration. “We know Stannis was in Braavos, but we don’t know where he went after that. We’ve had no word about him, none at all. He may be dead, he may still hold Dragonstone. We. Don’t. Know. And we’re not about to risk losing you as soon as we arrived just because we are blithely assuming that the entire island is deserted.”

“Would you stay back, if it were Winterfell we were taking?” snapped Daenerys.

“Yes, your Grace. I would. Because I would trust that my friends and advisors would have a reason for why they want me to wait, to do a sweep of the castle first, before letting me enter an uncertain situation. You’re the bloody Queen, your Grace! This entire thing depends on you staying alive and ruling Westeros, and as your Hand I will not let you fuck it up this early in the process!”

The shock of hearing Sansa swear had apparently shocked everyone in the room, including Daenerys, as there was silence as her voice faded.

“You speak wisely, Virzeth Veri. I understand.”

“Shall we compromise, your Grace?” asked Ser Barristan, leaning forward to look over the map of Dragonstone and outlining a plan that meant that Daenerys was still one of the first on the island, but she wouldn’t be alone.

And if all of her friends and companions were heavily armed, well, they were just being sensible.

By the time they got near the top of the stairs, Sansa was trying very hard not to show how winded she was. She thought she’d gotten used to stairs living in the Great Pyramid in Meereen, but these stairs were uneven, and jagged, and _exhausting_.

Lyanna, trotting along at her side, didn’t seem to mind the climb, and was instead happily smelling everything they came across.

With a shriek, the dragons perched on the walls of the castle, clearly waiting for Daenerys to hurry up and reclaim her home.

At the top of the stairs, however, they found they were not alone. Although she didn’t see any guards, Sansa could see a number of men and women, dressed as servants, neatly lining the courtyard as if waiting for inspection. They had the three-headed dragon of the Targaryen crest stitched upon their clothes, which was about all Sansa could make out before the Unsullied tightened into a defensive ring around Daenerys and her courtiers. 

“Come, now,” chided an old woman in a reedy voice. “Surely a little old woman such as myself doesn’t warrant this much paranoia?”

 _I recognise that voice!_ Sansa wormed her way through the circle of the Unsullied until she could see who was speaking, and laughed.

“Lady Tyrell, you don’t warrant this much paranoia. You warrant much more.”

“Sansa!” the old woman said, clearly startled. On one side of her, Prince Oberyn laughed at her shock, while on the other, Varys smiled slightly.

Lady Tyrell glanced between their faces, then smacked Lord Varys firmly in the stomach with her cane. “I see you left some things out of your story, boyo. We’ll have words on that, later.”

Varys looked as close to concerned as Sansa had ever seen him, and she was glad she wasn’t in his shoes. A pissed off Lady Tyrell was _frightening_.

The ring of the Unsullied slowly relaxed, seeing that there were only the three nobles standing in front of them, none of them armed (though Sansa figured that both Varys and Oberyn had at least one knife, if not more, stashed on their person. Lady Tyrell didn’t need weapons to make you bleed). They parted, letting the watchers in the courtyard take in Daenerys Targaryen, standing tall with the wind tugging at her braids, the bells in her hair chiming softly.

“Your Grace,” said Lady Tyrell as she inclined her head, and Oberyn and Varys bowed. “Dragonstone is yours.”


	17. The Singing of Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “As a general rule of thumb,” drawled Tyrion, “Stark men don’t fare well when they travel south. I would advise against this, your Grace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue from S07E02 ‘Stormborn’, S07E03 ‘The Queen’s Justice’ and S07E07 ‘The Dragon and the Wolf’.

They trailed behind Daenerys as she walked into the throne room at Dragonstone and took in the massive shard of stone fashioned into a throne.

Sansa was hard pressed not to roll her eyes at how ugly it was. _What is with these Southerners and their love of ugly thrones?_ she wondered. _The simple wooden chair that father used as Warden of the North was much nicer. And looked much more comfortable, too._

But Daenerys didn’t take the throne, instead turning to her friends and allies gathered behind her. “So, my Lords, my Lady. We were not expecting to find you here. Explain.”

Lady Tyrell made a show of leaning on her cane. “Of course, your Grace. Though if I may...I am an old woman, and standing around talking does me no favours these days. There is a map room through there,” she indicated behind the throne, “where we can sit and discuss these matters. We can even have tea, though as _someone_ didn’t tell me Sansa Lannister would be here, there are no lemon cakes.”

Varys refused to rise to the bait, and Sansa hid her grin. She’d missed Lady Tyrell, and it seemed that the old woman hadn’t gotten any less acerbic over the past two years.

Though she was curious to know why Lady Tyrell was here, seemingly willing to ally with Daenerys Targaryen, if her granddaughter was still Tommen’s queen.

Tea and refreshments were indeed served in the room next door, and soon a bright fire was flickering in the hearth, helping to chase the shadows away.

Daenerys sat at the head of the table, with her friends arrayed close to her — Sansa at her right hand, Lyanna sitting watchfully on her mistress’ other side. Varys and Oberyn stood flanking Lady Tyrell, who had taken the chair at the foot of the table.

Lady Tyrell helped herself to some tea and a biscuit. No one else did.

“If I know my genealogies and my histories correctly, and I do,” began Daenerys, “I should have no reason to trust you. Any of you. The Baratheon’s spymaster, a Prince of Dorne, and the grandmother of the Queen. Why are you here?”

“Did you know, we are cousins? By marriage,” Prince Oberyn explained. “My sister Elia married your brother Rhaegar. They had two children. Pretty little Rhaenys looked just like Elia in miniature, but she was a Targaryen through and through. She loved fire, and had a little black kitten she named Balerion. Her laugh was pure sunshine, and she brought joy to all those who beheld her.” The Prince of Dorne smiled softly. “Little Aegon looked more like your brother, a tiny wee thing with fair hair and beautiful purple eyes. He was quiet, and watchful, and Tywin Lannister ordered them killed.”

His smile faded. “I vowed my revenge on all those who killed my sister and her children — the ones that did the deeds, and the ones that ordered them. Tywin Lannister may have died, but his daughter lives, and sits upon the Iron Throne. It would be an honour, your Grace, to serve you and help remove her from that seat — and from the realms of the living.”

Daenerys nodded thoughtfully, and Sansa spoke up.

“But there is still the question of Myrcella,” said Sansa. “According to Dornish rules, Myrcella was Joffrey’s heir, not Tommen.”

Prince Oberyn shrugged. “And according to Northern rules, you are the Lady of the North now your older brother has died. We approached Myrcella. We asked if she wanted us to take up arms for her, to claim that throne that is rightfully hers.” He shook his head. “She went white, and said no. She doesn’t want to be the Queen. And, as she pointed out, she’s not even a Baratheon. She’s a Lannister.”

“Who told her?” asked Sansa.

“No one, that I know of. I believe she figured it out herself, though someone may have told her. Stannis’ declamation did make it to Dorne. If the Lady Myrcella does not want the Iron Throne, we will not make her to take it. We do not hurt little girls in Dorne, and that includes not forcing them to rule a kingdom they do not want. But, we cannot stomach Cersei Lannister on the Throne either. So we have come to you.”

“I thought Tommen was King?” asked Inigo.

“The King hasn’t been seen since his grandfather’s funeral,” said Lady Tyrell. “He was hurt in a hunting accident, apparently. Cersei is keeping him under lock and key, and ruling in his place.”

“And Margaery?” asked Sansa.

Lady Tyrell closed her eyes. “Hasn’t been seen for even longer. The last letter I had from her said she was with child, but I haven’t heard from her since. No one has seen or heard from her in months.”

“Not even my little birds can find her,” said Varys.

“Cersei did something to her,” said Lady Tyrell, certainty clear in every word. “And for that, I want to make her pay.”

Daenerys nodded. “You both want revenge.”

“The enemy of my enemy, your Grace,” said Sansa. “Dorne and the Reach are powerful allies. Dorne can field, what, fifty thousand soldiers?” Oberyn nodded, and Sansa continued. “Their navy is small but fierce, and they have close economic ties with Essos as well. The Reach is the breadbasket of Westeros, and the second wealthiest kingdom in the realm.”

“Wealthiest,” said Lady Tyrell. “The Lannister mines have run dry.”

Sansa tilted her head. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Most people aren’t, even former Lannister brides. But I knew Tywin. We were close, once. He always let slip to me more than he thought he did, and I sent my own little birds to confirm. There is no more gold in the Lannister mines. But the Reach’s wealth remains intact. We can field seventy thousand men, your Grace, and our naval strength is two hundred warships. I will commit all of them to your cause, as well as whatever food and supplies your own army needs. Just…” Lady Tyrell’s eyes closed, genuine emotion showing on her face. “Just bring me my granddaughter back. I never should have let my fool of a son marry her off. Never.”

Daenerys looked thoughtful. “So I have Dorne and the Reach on my side.”

“Cersei controls fewer than half of the seven kingdoms,” explained Varys. “The lords of Westeros despise her. Even before your arrival, they plotted against her. Now…”

“They cry out for their true queen? They drink secret toasts to my health? People used to tell my brother that sort of thing, and he was stupid enough to believe it.” She moved some of the pieces before her on the painted table, displacing dust as she went. “Even without you, and without the lords of Westeros, I have three dragons. I have an army of men loyal to me, and only to me. I have a khalasaar, the first to ever land on Westerosi soil. Tell me, why should I take on the lords of Westeros? They will all want something, and if they are anything like the nobles in Essos, they will be constantly squabbling with each other like squalling children. Why should I deal with them?”

“Because you want to be Queen of Westeros, not queen of it’s ashes,” said Varys. “If the Great Houses, and the small, and the common folk are with you, you will actually have a kingdom to rule once you win the throne. Without them, you will have nothing.”

Daenerys looked thoughtful. “You served my father, didn’t you Lord Varys?”

“I did, your Grace.” 

“And then you served the man who overthrew him.”

“I had a choice, your Grace. Serve Robert Baratheon or face the headman’s axe.”

“But you didn’t serve him long, did you? You turned against him, did you not?”

“Robert was an improvement on your father,” Varys admitted, “but not much of one. There have been few rulers in history as cruel as the Mad King, and while Robert wasn’t mad, he also wasn’t much of a king. He was better at winning a throne than ruling from it.”

“So you took it upon yourself to find a better ruler. Before I came to power, you favoured my brother. All of your spies. Your little birds. Tell me, which of my friends and confidants have you had in your pay over the years?”

Varys’ eyes didn’t move, and Daenerys smiled. “Oh, you are good. And don’t worry, I know about Sansa. My spymaster doesn’t keep secrets, not from me. Who gave the order to kill me?”

“King Robert.”

“Who hired the assassins? Who sent word to Essos that Daenerys Targaryen should be murdered?”

 

“Your Grace, I did what had to be done —”

“To keep yourself alive.”

“I am loyal, your Grace.”

“No, Lord Varys, you are the opposite. If you dislike one monarch, you plot and plan and depose them in favour of another. What kind of servant is that?”

“The kind the realm needs!” snapped Varys, raising his head in defiance. “Incompetence should not be rewarded with blind loyalty. As long as I have my eyes, and my ears, I’ll use them. I wasn’t born into a Great House. I came from nothing. I was sold as a slave and carved up as an offering. When I was a child I lived in alleys, gutters, abandoned houses! You wish to know where my true loyalties lie? Not with any King, or Queen, or khaleesi! My loyalties lie with the people. The people who suffer under despots and prosper under just rule, the people whose hearts you aim to win! If you demand blind allegiance, I respect your wishes and I will face whichever death you chose for me. But if you let me live, I will serve you well. I will dedicate myself to seeing you on the Iron Throne, because I _chose_ you. Because I know the people have no better chance than you.”

“And the moment I look as if I am following in my father’s footsteps?”

“Then I will remove you, and find a new monarch to take your place.”

Daenerys nodded. “Good.” She reached forward and poured herself some tea. “Shall we begin?”

* * *

_Of fucking course,_ though Tyrion as Jon made his announcement that Sam had found proof of dragonglass on Dragonstone. _That’s what I’d forgotten! Bloody Stannis even told me himself it was there. Fuck, living at The Wall really did freeze my brain to slush._

“I received this,” Jon continued, holding up another scroll, “a few days ago. From Dragonstone. It was sent to Maester Wolkan, and meant for ‘the Lord of Winterfell, whomever claims that lie’. Queen Daenerys Targaryen has landed at Dragonstone, and intends to take the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister. She has a powerful army at her back, and if this message is to be believed...three dragons.”

The room exploded into noise, and Tyrion wondered how big those dragons were. He’d always wanted to see a dragon, and now, supposedly, there were _three_ in the world.

Perhaps, when this was all over, he would be able to see them himself.

“‘The Lord of Winterfell’ has been invited to Dragonstone to meet with Daenerys, and pledge my sword to her cause. And I am going to accept.”

The room exploded again, and Jon raised his hands for quiet. “I will go to Dragonstone, though not to pledge our swords to her cause. Let her and Cersei fight over the Iron Throne, our battles are to the North. We need that dragonglass, my lords! We know that dragonglass can destroy the white walkers and their army! We need to mine it and turn it into weapons. But more importantly, we need allies. The Night King’s army grows larger by the day. We cannot defeat them on our own. We don’t have the numbers. Daenerys not only has her own army, but she has dragonfire. Real dragonfire. I need to try and persuade her to fight with us. Ser Davos, Lord Tyrion and I shall ride for White Harbour tomorrow, then sail for Dragonstone. In my absence, my brother Bran shall rule as Lord of Winterfell.”

“We called your other brother ‘king’!” roared Lord Glover as he surged to his feet. “And he rode south, and lost his Kingdom. Your father went south, and lost his head. Your grandfather went south, and that woman’s father roasted him alive.”

“As a general rule of thumb,” drawled Tyrion, “Stark men don’t fare well when they travel south. I would advise against this, your Grace.”

“Winter is here, your Grace” said Lady Mormont, rising to her feet as well. “We need the King in the North _in the north_.”

Jon’s face fell, and he took a deep breath. “You all crowned me your king. I never wanted it. I never asked for it. But I accepted it, because the North is my home. It’s part of me, and I will never stop fighting for it, no matter the odds! But the odds are against us. Few of you have seen the army of the dead, and to those of you who have not, I say this: we cannot hope to defeat them alone. We need allies. Powerful allies. And we need dragonglass. Dragonstone has both. I know it’s a risk, but I have to take it. Before I do, there is unfinished business.” 

Jon walked to the table at the front of the room and took his seat as Lord of Winterfell and King of the North. He nodded, and the doors at the back of the room opened. Two soldiers escorted Aly in and left her standing in the middle of the room.

The mood of the room shifted, and Tyrion felt an uncomfortable reminder of his own trial.

Jon sighed. “I do not want to do this, but honour demands that I defend my family from those who harm us. That I defend the North from those who would betray us.”

“Jon —” began Aly, but Jon raised his hand and cut her off.

“You stand accused of murder. You stand accused of treason. How do you answer these charges?” Jon turned his head and sought out a figure at the side of the room. “Lord Baelish?”

All eyes in the room turned to Petyr Baelish, who looked completely flummoxed. “Your Grace, forgive me. I’m a bit confused.”

“Which charges confuse you?” asked Jon. “Shall we start with the simplest one? You murdered your wife, Lysa Arryn. You pushed her through the Moon Door. We have a witness, right here, who can prove you did it. Do you deny it?”

“Of course I deny it,” said Lord Petyr, walking closer to the table. “It’s nothing more than a fanciful story made up by a disturbed girl.”

“A disturbed girl?” asked Jon, his voice dangerously calm. Tyrion felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and he _knew_ what was about to happen. He’d helped Jon with the script for it.

“Very disturbed, your Grace. You see, that woman is not your sister. She’s not even a noble, just some by-blow from the kitchens who looks a lot like her.”

The gathered lords began to mutter in confusion, until Jon’s next words shut them up.

“I know.”

Petyr faltered in his steps. “You knew?”

“That this is not my sister? Of course I knew. Did you really think I would not know my own sister?”

“So you knowingly used a fake to claim Winterfell? How many lords did you promise this fake Sansa’s hand to in return for their loyalty?”

“None,” said Jon calmly. “I never mentioned Sansa in any of my negotiations with the lords of the North, nor did I ever try and pass Aly off as Sansa.”

Jon paused, as planned, and let the Northern lords think it through. It was true, they realised as they reviewed their memories of Jon’s appeals to them to fight with him. Jon had never mentioned his sister, and certainly never by name. He’d also been very careful to never, ever promise anyone ‘Sansa’s’ hand in marriage. Several of the Northerners nodded to themselves, pleased that their King had been so honourable, so careful with the truth — and so clever as to walk such a fine line.

“But you did, didn’t you Lord Baelish? You used her to add legitimacy to your rule in the Vale, and to dig your claws into the North.”

“Did you know about Ramsay?” asked Aly, speaking for the first time. “Did you know what he would do to me?”

Littlefinger looked uncomfortable, and tried to wave her questions away. “It doesn’t matter. You’re no one.”

“She’s not no one!” objected Jon. “She’s a person, same as me or you.”

“She’s your daughter,” said Bran. “Your natural daughter.”

Littlefinger shook his head. “No, that’s not right. That can’t be right.”

“When you returned from Riverrun, after losing a duel for my mother’s hand,” said Bran, “you were miserable. But one day, when you were out riding, you came across a girl who looked very like her. You took her, and you used her. And you used her up.”

“My mother never stopped thinking of you,” said Aly. “By time I was born you’d already left for King’s Landing to be Master of Coin. She told me stories of the wonderful man you were. Of how kind, how clever. All lies.”

“You broke Gella Borrell,” said Bran. “She never recovered from what you did to her.”

“And so I set out to find you,” said Aly. “I set out to make you pay. My mother was a Borrell — a minor one, but still a Borrell. But because of you, she was a broken dying thing, and then a dead thing. Because of you, I am a Stone, not a Borrell or a Baelish.”

“And because of you, my father is dead. My mother is dead. My brother is dead,” said Jon. “You conspired to murder Jon Arryn, giving his wife Tears of Lys to kill him with. It was the death of Jon Arryn that kicked off the whole sorry affair of the War of Five Kings, which cost every person in this room someone they loved. Everyone, except you, Lord Baelish. You just kept coming out on top, didn’t you? More money, more power...it was never enough, was it?”

“You weren’t there!” exclaimed Littlefinger. “None of you were there to see what happened! None of you know the truth!”

“You held a knife to his throat,” said Bran mildly. “You conspired with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to murder our father on false charges of treason, and when they turned on him, you held a knife to his throat and said ‘I did warn you not to trust me’.”

Littlefinger’s eyes darted around the room, looking for someone, anyone, that he could turn to. That he could blame, or use. Tyrion noticed Brienne shift so she was standing closer to Lady Mormont. 

Littlefinger crossed to Lord Royce. “I am Lord Protector of the Vale, and I command you to escort me safely back to the Eyrie!” 

 

Lord Royce looked at Littlefinger as if he was shit on the bottom of his shoe. “I think not.” 

Littlefinger fell to his knees, and Jon slowly rose. “I, Jon Snow, Lord of Winterfell, King of the North, have heard your defense. I have heard your accusers, and I say to you: Petyr Baelish, you are guilty. Guilty of murder, and of treason.” He turned to the guards who had escorted Aly in. “Take him to the cells.”

They quickly bound Littlefinger’s wrists and led him from the room. Littlefinger’s strident protests gradually faded as the guards took him away.

Jon watched him go, then extended a hand to Aly. “Alyane Stone. I am sorry for what your father did to you. Just as Ned Umber and Alys Karstark were not to blame for the actions of their fathers, nor were you to blame for yours.”

* * *

_My gods, it is ugly,_ though Tyrion as their boat pulled onto the beach on Dragonstone. A small party of what could only be Dothraki awaited them, as well as a tall woman with curly black hair and a shorter man standing deferentially behind her.

“Welcome to Dragonstone,” she said, her lovely voice ringing above the crashing waves and shrieking gulls. “I am Missandei. And you are?”

“Jon Snow, my lady, Lord of Winterfell and King of the North. These are my advisors, Ser Davos Seaworth and Tyrion Hill.”

Missandei nodded at them, a beautiful smile breaking across her face. “Our Queen knows this is a long journey for you, and appreciates the efforts you have made on her behalf. If you wouldn’t mind handing over your weapons, I will escort you to her immediately.”

Tyrion, Jon, and Davos shared uncomfortable looks and slowly took their weapons off.

Well, their visible weapons. Longclaw, Bright Roar, and Davos’ sword were all handed to the waiting Dothraki, as were the weapons of their men and the knives that hung at their belts.

From the look on Missandei’s face, she knew very well that they most likely had smaller knifes tucked here and there — Davos made a show of taking one from his boot and handing it over — but she was too polite to question them on it.

_Smart enough to disarm us, both figuratively and metaphorically, as soon as we land on shore, yet wise enough not to press. If this Missandei is anything like her Queen, then we are facing a very clever woman indeed._

The Dothraki also moved to take away their boat, causing some grumbles amongst their sailors.

“The tide rises high on this beach,” explained Missandei, “and it is not safe to leave your boat unmoored here. If your men will follow Inigo,” she waved the man forward, “he will show them where your boat may be secured, and then to quarters where they may rest, bathe, and eat. If you will follow me, my lords, this way. The Queen wishes to see you.”

They left the beach with a small complement of guards escorting them, and Davos soon extended his stride to match Missandei’s (though Tyrion noticed she was very carefully keeping stride with Tyrion’s own shorter legs).

“Where are you from, my lady? I can’t place the accent,” he said, all cheer in his voice. 

“I was born on the island of Narth,” she said.

“Ah! I hear it’s beautiful down there, all palm trees and butterflies. I haven’t been myself.” He smiled at her, clearly expecting her to continue the conversation, but she just smiled at him and carried on walking.

They climbed up the long, narrow stairs to the castle, and Tyrion couldn’t help but admire how bloody difficult it would be to take Dragonstone as attackers.

Beside him, Davos panted. “By the Gods, I’d forgotten just how wretched these bloody stairs could be.”

Out of breath, Tyrion just nodded, and then hit the ground with a shriek as a dragon flew low overhead.

_Seven Hells, the beast is huge!_

Slowly, he and the others picked themselves up off the ground, to see that Missandei had apparently not even flinched. She and their Dothraki guard were still standing, smiling in clear amusement.

“They are magnificent, don’t you agree?” she asked as she offered Davos a hand up. “Come, their mother is waiting for you.”

Tyrion paid absolutely no attention to the rest of the conversation or the steep unevenness of the stairs, as he spent the rest of the walk to the castle marveling at the three — three! — dragons whirling and swooping overhead.

_They are the most brilliant, most stunning, most fantastic things I have ever seen!_

Eventually, however, they had to enter the castle proper, and it was with great reluctance that Tyrion let Jon drag him inside so the doors could be shut behind them.

His King glared at him over his inattention, and Tyrion nodded, ashamed. _Negotiate for dragonglass now, gawk at dragons later,_ he told himself firmly.

Missandei bid them to wait in a chamber outside what Tyrion guessed was the Throne Room, and slipped inside.

After a few moments in which they all straightened their travel-stained clothing and attempted to bring order to hair mussed by the wind (Davos, with his close cut haircut, looked very smug as Jon attempted to get his longer locks into order), the door to the Throne Room was opened, and the attendants gestured them in.

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen” said Missandei, standing at the left hand of a slight, silver-haired young woman sitting on the throne. “Rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. The Mother of Dragons. The Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. The Unburnt. The Breaker of Chains. The Mhysa of Meereen.”

There was an expectant silence, and Jon looked at Tyrion, then Davos.

“This is Jon Snow,” said Davos. “He’s King in the North.” 

As that was all Davos apparently had to say, Tyrion stepped forward to try and elaborate on Jon’s titles slightly, to try and match the long list that the Queen had. “Jon Snow of House Stark, eldest son of Ned Stark. Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. The White Wolf, and the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

The Queen’s gaze moved from Jon to Tyrion. “Forgive me, Lord Snow, but...you’re Tyrion Lannister, aren’t you?”

“Yes, your Grace, I am. It is a pleasure to meet you. We have heard many great things of you,” he said, bowing deeply.

The Queen’s stern visage broke into a genuine-looking smile. “She always said you were clever.”

“Who did?” he asked, and then he heard it.

First, the soft clack of nails on stone, like the sounds Osha made occasionally as she moved around Winterfell. Then the sound of bells.

From the shadows behind the throne, a large russet direwolf emerged, slowly padding across the floor towards them.

But that’s not what took Tyrion’s breath away. The woman walking behind the direwolf did that.

She was dressed in richly embroidered robes that emphasised her lean height. Her hair was up in an elaborate braided style woven with small bells that rang as she moved. There was a sword and a dagger, hanging from her belt, and she moved like a skilled hunter.

She was grace, she was elegance, she was…

“Your wife,” said the Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY ARE FINALLY IN THE SAME PLACE. Now I’m going to take a break for a bit and try and work out how I’m going to finish this entire saga…
> 
> Would anyone be interested in a short story about Aly? Or do you feel you know enough now?


End file.
